


sometimes (i find it hard to believe)

by shineyma



Series: before you fall [7]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Series Rewrite, Soulmate-Identifying Timers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 267,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant Ward's soulmate is a beautiful, brilliant scientist whom he has absolutely no hope of turning to HYDRA. The fact that this is not his biggest problem really says a lot.</p><p>[[This version has been ABANDONED FOR REWRITING as of 6/6/16. You can find the new version <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7223578/chapters/16396078">here</a>.]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you so much for the kind reviews and all of the kudos! I've never had such a strong reaction to a story so quickly before, and it really means a lot! It also, as you can see, serves as a great motivating factor. 
> 
> Now, this is the first part of what will be a multi-chapter fic. I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to rewrite every episode, or just write little episode tags, or what. The next part might be a while as I decide exactly how I'm going to play this. (I do know how it ends, though!) Please bear with me.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and please be kind if you choose to review!

So Grant is standing in the cargo bay, and he might be staring at his soulmate like an idiot, but his mind is racing with plans and contingencies…and maybe even a little bit of panic.

He’s read the psych profiles on Jemma Simmons, both the one SHIELD created and the one Garrett created. Her SHIELD profile says that she’s brilliant, dedicated, enthusiastic about her work, and fiercely loyal to those she deems worthy of it—namely, Leo Fitz and SHIELD as a whole. Garrett’s profile of her is simpler: it identifies her as a risk because she is firm in her moral convictions and far too perceptive by half.

Staring down at her, still reeling from the unfamiliar warmth in his chest, he really can’t help but panic.

He has _no idea_ what to do with this.

He's going to have to report to Coulson that he and Simmons are soulmates, and that could be a problem. Soulmates aren't allowed to go into the field together—and for good reason. So either he gets taken off the team, which will completely ruin Garrett's _entire plan_ , or Simmons does, and that...

It should be a good thing, he thinks. Have his soulmate taken off his team and sent back to the lab, where she'll be out of the line of fire and he can go about this deep cover mission without worrying about her, about her safety and what she thinks of him and how she'll feel if she ever finds out he's HYDRA.

But he knows she won't go back to the lab. He knows, from the watch Garrett has kept on this team as it formed, that it was Simmons' idea to go into the field in the first place, that she talked Fitz into it and basically dragged him along with her. If she gets taken off Coulson's team, she won't be going back to the lab. She'll be joining another team, somewhere else, somewhere he can't keep an eye on her and make sure she's safe. Can he really trust his soulmate’s safety to another specialist—a specialist he won’t even get to choose?

He shouldn't be worrying about this. He's known her for thirty seconds and he has plans, a purpose, that a soulmate will only get in the way of. He has his orders, and they have nothing to do with Jemma Simmons and the way she's staring up at him ( _way_ up, she's fucking tiny, and he actually finds it _adorable_ , what the hell, no one told him finding your soulmate makes you lose your mind) with hope and shock and a little bit of tentative happiness.

But he spent six years carrying her on his wrist, keeping her as a beacon of hope, of possibility, and ten years mourning the loss of that beacon. The idea of her was a light in dark times, an extra bit of strength that got him through his worst moments. Looking down at this brilliant, beautiful woman…he wants her.

He wants to talk to her, to learn everything about her directly from the source instead of reading it in a file. He wants to tell her everything about himself, or at least everything that won’t compromise his mission. He wants to find out if she really is his other half, if this woman who was raised in lecture halls and labs can understand a broken man like him.

He wants her here. He wants her beside him, within his sight, where he can protect her like he promised himself he would so long ago.

The sound of an approaching car pulls him out of his thoughts, and he tears his eyes away from his soulmate to see Coulson drive up in a classic Corvette. Behind him, he hears Fitz hurry over to stand next to Simmons.

“A specialist?” the engineer hisses. “Your soulmate is a bloody _specialist_?”

He doesn’t hear Simmons’ reply because he’s focused on Coulson, who, after telling one of the ground crew not to touch ‘Lola’, turns to look at him. Coulson raises an eyebrow, and Grant realizes what a strange picture it must be, the three of them just standing in the cargo bay next to a pile of luggage.

“Something wrong, Agent Ward?” Coulson asks.

“Not…exactly, sir,” Grant replies. He hesitates. He needs to get Coulson to agree to keep him and Simmons on the team together, but Coulson needs to think it was his idea. While there was actually a class at the Academy in how to handle meeting your soulmate for the first time on an undercover op, it unfortunately didn’t include what to do when the undercover op involved acting as a sleeper agent within SHIELD itself. He has no idea how to play this.

“Fitzsimmons?” Coulson asks, looking to the scientists.

“Well, you see, sir,” Simmons starts, then trails off. It’s a little comforting to him that she’s clearly just as out of her depth as he is. (Also, he likes her accent, which is just…such a stupid thing to notice about a woman.)

“Ward is Jemma’s bloody soulmate!” Fitz interjects. He sounds angry, and Grant wonders at it.

“Huh,” Coulson says, blinking a little. “I can’t say I was expecting that.”

“Yes, well,” Simmons says. She tucks her hair behind her ear and clears her throat. “Shall Fitz and I pack our things then?”

“What?” Fitz asks. “What do you mean, _pack our things_? Suddenly you’ve—this was your idea in the first place!”

“I haven’t changed my mind, Fitz,” Simmons sighs, turning to face him again. “It’s against protocol for soulmates to be on a field team together, you know that.”

Fitz doesn’t have a chance to do more than open his mouth before Coulson interrupts.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he says with a pleasant smile. “Why don’t you two finish unpacking while Agent Ward joins me in my office?”

Grant nods and follows Coulson up the stairs. Coulson starts talking about his car as they journey through the plane, and Grant keeps one ear open as he examines his new base. For a plane, it’s huge, but it’ll feel cramped soon enough if he’s expected to actually live in it. Still, he’s slept in much, much, _much_ worse places—a certain cave in the Hindu Kush comes to mind—and he can certainly work with this. If he gets the chance, that is.

It’s up another staircase to Coulson’s office, and Grant falls into parade rest as the man takes a seat behind his desk.

“So,” Coulson says, folding his hands.

“Should I report back to base for new orders, sir?” Grant asks, deciding to take the reverse psychology route again. It worked the first time, after all, and he really has no other play. Threats and violence, his usual methods of getting what he wants, won’t really work against a superior officer. And seduction’s right out, for obvious reasons, even if his soulmate weren’t right downstairs.

His _soulmate_. She’s _here_.

“You’re not getting out of this that easily, Agent Ward,” Coulson says with a little smile. “You and Agent Simmons will both remain on the team.”

“Sir, protocol—” Grant begins.

“We’ll get an exemption,” Coulson dismisses with a wave of his hand. “My reasons for selecting you and Fitzsimmons for this team remain. You’re the best, and I want the best.”

“Sir, I’m not sure how I feel about taking my soulmate into the field, especially if what Dr. Streiten said is true and she hasn’t passed her field test.”

“She hasn’t,” Coulson confirms. “But you’ll manage.”

Grant goes to protest again—can’t be seen giving in too easily—but Coulson’s raised hand stops him.

“Let me put it this way,” Coulson says. “Would you rather go into the field with your untrained soulmate, or let her go with someone else—someone you don’t know?”

Since that was pretty much exactly Grant’s thought process, he really doesn’t have an argument against it. He lets out a slow breath.

“Understood, sir,” he says.

Coulson smiles. “I knew you’d see it my way,” the man says cheerfully. He stands up and leads the way back downstairs.

In the lounge, they run into Melinda May.

“If you plan to unpack, make it quick,” she says. “Wheels are up in five.”

She hands Coulson a binder.

“We may have a hit on one of the Rising Tide’s routing points,” she tells him.

“Good,” Coulson says. “We need to do some catching up.”

May nods and walks away, while Grant turns back to Coulson.

“Is that…who I think it is?” he asks. He’d known from Garrett’s files that the Calvary was going to be a part of this project, but…still. He’ll really have to stay on his toes on this op.

(And if a small part of him feels grateful that the Calvary is around to watch his soulmate’s back…well, he’s deep cover. He’s just getting into character.)

“She’s just the pilot,” Coulson tells him.

“Melinda May is…just the pilot,” Grant echoes dubiously. “C’mon, sir. What game are you really playing?”

“Better stow your gear,” Coulson says, flicking his eyes to the door behind Grant. Then he heads back up the stairs.

Grant turns and enters the bunk. It’s small, cramped—but again, still miles above some of the other places he slept. Hell, it even has a mattress. He decides to leave unpacking for later. For the moment, he stows his duffle in a small compartment beside the door.

He feels the plane begin to move and takes a seat on the bed.

Jemma Simmons. His soulmate is an entirely loyal SHIELD agent. It answers two questions which have burned at him for years: it doesn’t matter that he’s a SHIELD agent, because so is she. And he doesn’t have to wonder how she’ll react if she finds out he’s HYDRA, because he knows. The psych profile Garrett has on her is very clear on her moral conviction.

Still, there’s absolutely no reason Simmons—Jemma—should ever know that he’s HYDRA. As long as he does his job right, no one should ever know. HYDRA has hidden within SHIELD since its founding.

No one will know.

\---

Once the plane reaches cruising altitude—which he is informed of by an alert popping up on the TV that hangs on the wall above the foot of his bed—he leaves his bunk. It’s tempting to stay in there, sit and think and plan until they reach their destination, but he can’t.

He _needs_ to see Simmons. It feels like there’s a cord wrapped around his heart, being tugged on every few seconds. Like he’s tethered to her, now that he knows who she is, and the tether has stretched tight like a rubber band, about to snap if he doesn’t go see her _immediately_.

He knows that the soulmate bond takes time to settle into place, but he hopes it happens quickly. It’s not a pleasant sensation.

He finds her in the lab, with Fitz, back to arguing about the ‘night-night gun’ they’d been discussing when he first boarded the plane. Once again, they don’t notice him when he enters. He’s really going to have to work with them—or at least with Simmons—on situational awareness. He can’t have her out in the field if she doesn’t even notice when a highly trained operative is standing right behind her.

He knocks on a table to get their attention, and the argument cuts off abruptly as Simmons whirls to face him.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “Agent Ward—I—hello!”

“Hi,” he says. He gives her his best non-threatening smile and hopes it doesn’t come across as a grimace. That happens sometimes. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“Yes,” Simmons says. “That would be—I’d like that. Fitz, could you--?”

“Oh, fine,” Fitz grouses, picking up a bag from the corner. “I’ll just go set up my bunk then, shall I?” He gives Grant a suspicious look, then frowns at Simmons. “Shout if you need me, would you?”

“I will,” Simmons assures him.

They watch Fitz leave, and then turn back to each other. It’s a little awkward, honestly, and Grant, buoyed by the warmth that still fills him (this sensation is _not_ uncomfortable, not like the tether, but it is distracting) decides to risk speaking first.

“So,” he says. “Grant Ward. Nice to meet you.”

“Jemma Simmons,” she says with a little laugh. “The pleasure’s mine.”

They stand there for a moment, smiling at each other like idiots, before Simmons shakes her head.

“Here, would you like to have a seat?” she offers. She indicates the table behind him, which has a stool on either side.

“Sure,” he says, realizing that she’ll probably be more comfortable without him looming over her. He takes the stool on the far side of the table, and Simmons smiles at him as she sits down.

“So, Grant,” she says carefully, like she’s testing it.

“Jemma,” he replies, and weirdly, he really likes it. He likes the way her name feels in his mouth, the way it sounds when he says it.

(Seriously. He’s getting excited about _saying her name_. He has never in his life felt this ridiculous, not even that time he had to go undercover as a cybergoth.)

“I’m sorry,” Simmons says, laughing a little. “I just…I have no idea what to say. I really wasn’t expecting…”

“No,” he agrees when she trails off. “Me neither.” He hesitates for a moment, then says, “I get the feeling Fitz doesn’t like me very much. Are you two…?”

“Oh! Oh, no,” Simmons rushes to assure him. “We’re strictly platonic, like siblings, really. He’s just…protective of me, that’s all.”

Grant nods. “Good to know.”

“Are you—I mean, do you have…?”

“No, there’s no one,” he promises. “I’ve never really had the time for anything more than…”

He trails off, not really willing to discuss his habit of one night stands with his soulmate.

“No, of course not,” she agrees. “You’re a busy man. A specialist.”

“Is that a problem?” he asks.

“No,” she says with a little smile. “They told me it was a possibility, actually, when my timer went blank. It’s just…a lot to take in.”

“You didn’t know already?” he asks.

“Know what?”

“You said they told you it was a possibility. You didn’t know that when your timer went blank?” he clarifies.

“Oh, I had no idea,” she confirms. “It frightened me something awful, actually, when I looked down to see the numbers gone. I thought something terrible must have happened.”

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, feeling a little sick. Once he’d been told that his soulmate’s timer would go blank instead of red, he’d never really given another thought to how she’d be effected by his timer’s removal.

“It’s alright,” she assures him. “I was already at the Academy at the time, so when I went to my advisor she knew right away what it meant.”

“The Academy, really?” he asks, faking surprise. “But you must’ve only been, what, sixteen?”

He can’t be seen to know too much about her, after all. Grant Ward, loyal SHIELD agent, hasn’t been given access to his new team’s personnel files.

“Oh, yes,” she says. “I was…well, not to sound arrogant, but I was something of a prodigy.”

He uses this opening and steers the conversation to her education. After a brief (and extremely edited) recounting of his own time in military school, he keeps her talking about university and the Academy and her two PhDs.

This serves two purposes: one, it gets her more comfortable with him, and two, it gives him a legitimate knowledge of her background. He’s found that it’s always best, in undercover situations, to find a legitimate source for information which he’s already been given. It lessens the chance of slipping up and revealing more than he’s supposed to know.

She’s in the middle of recounting a prank one of her classmates at the Academy had played to trick everyone into believing she was telekinetic when May comes on the intercom to tell them that they’ll begin their descent in five, and Grant is wanted in the briefing room.

“I’m sorry,” Simmons says, shaking her head. “I’ve rather been monopolizing the conversation, haven’t I?”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Grant assures her. “I like hearing about you. I’d like to hear more.”

“And I’d like to hear about you,” she says. “But I suppose it will have to wait.”

“It will,” he agrees, standing. “So, I’ll talk to you later then?”

“Later,” Simmons nods. He feels her eyes follow him out of the lab, and can't deny that it gives him a thrill. (He has a serious problem.)

\---

In the briefing, he learns that they’re in Los Angeles, on the trail of a member of the Rising Tide—a hacker group which has made a habit of spilling SHIELD’s secrets since the Battle of New York. The Rising Tide is also notable for being the group that interfered with his last mission, nearly screwing things up beyond recovery. SHIELD has managed to get a trace on one of the Rising Tide’s routing points, and when he and Coulson follow the trace, it leads them to a van parked in an alley.

They bring the woman back to the Bus and take her into interrogation. He’s more aggressive than he usually would be with a suspect like Skye, speaking to her derisively instead of with charm. Most of it is to give Coulson the impression that Grant still isn’t entirely sold on the whole ‘team’ thing. A small part of it, however, is genuine annoyance—both at Skye for drawing him away from Simmons’ side, and at the fact that, as they stand in the interrogation room (or ‘Cage’, apparently), Simmons is going into the field without him.

Coulson doesn’t seem to pick up on that part of it, though, accusing him of being so anxious to get out of the assignment that he’s deliberately blowing the interrogation. Which, although exactly the impression Grant wanted him to get, is still pretty insulting. Grant’s been accused of a lot of things in his life—most of them true, even—but never a lack of professionalism.

Well. Maybe once. But still.

He’s amused when he realizes Coulson intends to trick Skye into telling them the truth by pretending to inject Grant with truth serum. No one can say Coulson doesn’t know how to think outside the box.

He knows he shouldn’t, that it might draw Coulson’s attention to the real cause of his irritation with Skye, but before they go back into the Cage, he can’t help but ask, “Have we heard anything from Agent May, sir?”

Coulson looks amused and a little sympathetic, but not suspicious. Good.

“No,” he says. “And we don’t expect to, either. I’m sure she’s fine.”

Grant chooses to ignore the use of the word ‘she’ instead of ‘they’, and follows Coulson back into the Cage without comment.

\---

May comes to ‘wake’ him about half an hour after his pretend share session with Skye, and once she fills him in, he heads to the lab.

Simmons is sitting at the counter in front of some kind of…something, wielding what looks (and sounds) suspiciously like a saw. (He absolutely does _not_ think she looks adorable in her lab coat and safety glasses. Not even a little.) He keeps an eye on her as he watches Fitz run around, but has to leave the lab to get a good look at the reconstruction of the scene of the explosion.

They discover that the explosion originated from the angry man—originated in the sense of him actually physically exploding, likely due to the apparatus on his arm that was injecting him with Extremis—and every other known source of superpowers, according to Simmons.

It’s easier than he thought it would be, interacting with her in a professional capacity. He spends the whole time resisting the urge to stand right next to her, to tuck her loose hair behind her ear, but other than that, there’s no problem. He even manages to keep himself from reacting when Coulson yells at Simmons for saying there’s no way to save Mike Peterson—it’s a serious exercise in self-control, obviously, but he still manages it.

Of course, there’s a big difference between having a professional exchange in the safety of their base and acting professionally when she’s in the line of fire, but…one problem at a time.

Peterson grabs Skye, and they trace her hack to Union Station. Considering he’s about to literally explode, this is not a good thing. They leave Simmons and Fitz working on a non-lethal solution and head to Union Station. Grant is, honestly, completely incredulous. He knows Coulson’s reputation, of course, but to see it in action?

“Look at this place,” Grant says as they approach the van. “You’re gonna risk thousands of lives for some nobody?”

“Nobody’s nobody, Ward,” Coulson replies. “And have a little faith in your soulmate. Fitzsimmons will come through.”

On a completely irrelevant note, Grant’s not entirely sure how he feels about the way everyone automatically associates his soulmate with another man. Before, when Simmons was just a name that he knew by reputation of her brilliance, he thought the Fitzsimmons thing was kind of tacky. Now, it might be a little annoying.

(Seriously, why didn’t anyone warn him that he would lose his mind as soon as he met his soulmate?)

Predictably, Peterson doesn’t react well to the polite approach. He heads into Union Station with Skye and a little boy—presumably his son—and Grant gives chase. As he circles around to try to get in front of them, he notes the way Skye causes a distraction to get herself and the kid away from the obviously unstable Peterson and is reluctantly impressed. It’s pretty quick thinking for a civilian.

The ‘inform-him-he’s-about-to-explode’ approach doesn’t do much good, either, and Grant gets thrown pretty hard to the ground after breaking a glass display case with his back. He’s definitely going to be feeling that one tomorrow. Between that, the fight over the Chitauri neural link a few days ago, and the uncomfortable pull of the soul bond on his heart, he’s glad to accept Coulson’s order to stay high.

He’ll admit, if only to himself, to being a little moved by Peterson’s speech. Despite himself, he’s even a little relieved when Fitz appears with a silver rifle that he claims will put Peterson down without killing him.

He’s even more relieved when he sees Simmons run forward, and the smile on her face after she checks on Peterson. It shouldn’t matter so much—if they’re going to be going into the field together, it’s a pretty good bet that she’ll see him kill someone someday. He can’t help but be glad that it’s not today, though.

\---

Back at the Bus, eating Chinese and drinking beer with Simmons and Fitz, Grant feels something approaching contentment. He’d be happier if Fitz had gone with Coulson and Skye to drop Peterson’s son off, leaving him alone with Simmons, but this is good enough. He’ll obviously have to get used to Fitz, anyway, if he hopes to have anything with Simmons.

In this moment, sitting next to his soulmate, close enough that their shoulders brush every time he picks up his beer, absolutely nothing can bring him down.

His life being what it is, of course, an alert pops up on the laptop he’s been using to write his report of the Union Station incident as soon as he has that thought.

“What is it?” Simmons asks, leaning forward to see the screen better. Grant absolutely _does not_ inhale the scent of her shampoo.

“New assignment,” he says, reading the alert. “An 0-8-4.”

“Really?” Fitz asks, leaning over his other shoulder. “Are they sure?”

“They want us to confirm it,” Grant says as he pulls out his phone. “I’ll call Coulson. You alert May—we’re headed for Peru.”

Fitz nods and heads towards the cockpit as Grant makes the call to Coulson.

“Peru,” Simmons muses once he hangs up. “That’s a long flight.”

“It is,” Grant agrees.

“Enough time for a good talk?” she suggests with a playful smile.

It’s good to know that she’s just as eager as he is to spend time together. It makes him feel a little less pathetic that his heart actually _skipped a fucking beat_ at the sight of her smile. Only a little, though.

He jerks his head towards the bar. “Can I buy you another drink to go with that talk?” he asks.

“Sounds good,” she says, and if he takes her hand in his as they make the (incredibly short) walk to the bar…well. No one needs to know.


	2. 0-8-4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team goes into the field to investigate an 0-8-4. The 'field' in this particular instance happens to be an active war zone. Grant is not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to thank everyone who has reviewed and kudo'd. I've never had such a huge response to a story, and it really means a lot. Second, I feel the need to apologize, because this chapter is ridiculously massive. I don't even know what happened. The next chapter won't be anywhere near as long, I promise. Third, I do want to warn you that this chapter--and in fact, this whole fic-- **contains violence and strong language**. Grant's vocabulary gets colorful when he's upset.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and please be gentle if you review!

Between needing to fill up the plane and file a flight plan, they won’t actually be leaving for Peru until the morning. Since they have nothing to do with that, Grant and Jemma spend hours sitting in the lounge, getting to know each other a little better. They discuss their favorite books, movies, and music; what they do in their downtime (funnily enough, the answer is ‘not much’ for both of them. SHIELD agents, whether scientist or specialist, don’t get a lot of down time.); and their time at their respective Academies.

By the time they say goodnight and head to bed, Grant is feeling uncharacteristically optimistic. He’s never had a conversation that long without needing to dip into one of his undercover personas for help, but talking to Jemma is so easy, so effortless, that it never even occurs to him. He’s glad that Jemma doesn’t seem to mind his deadpan sense of humor, even if her own is a little lighter. He does get so tired of being called humorless just because he isn’t cracking jokes every two seconds like _some_ people he could name. (He’s not. Naming, that is. But he is _absolutely_ looking at you, Barton.)

Best of all, the soul bond seems to have finally settled. The tether around his heart has loosened significantly and no longer feels like it will snap if he takes more than three steps away from Jemma. He can still feel it, though. Strangely enough, it reminds him of the three months he spent undercover as a surfer. He spent every day wearing a truly obnoxious puka shell necklace, and though it drove him crazy at first, by the time the assignment ended, it was a comforting, familiar weight. That’s what the soul bond feels like as he settles into bed: something that’s supposed to be there.

He’d still be happier to have Jemma beside him, of course, but that’s probably a ways off. For now, this is more than enough.

\---

He’s up before dawn, as usual, and by six thirty he’s in the cargo bay, beginning his morning workout. There are no weights, free standing or otherwise, but there’s a punching bag hanging by the stairs and a decent bar to do pull-ups on near the bay doors.

He’s just started his final set of push-ups when he feels a strange tug in his chest and looks up to see Jemma coming down the stairs. She doesn’t say anything, just takes a seat on one of the bottom steps and smiles at him, so he goes back to his push-ups.

Once he’s finished, he sits back on his heels instead of going straight to the punching bag. “Good morning.”

“Good morning! Don’t mind me, I’m just…” Jemma tilts her head thoughtfully. “Enjoying the view.”

Grant laughs a little. He can’t help it. (But it’s not because he finds her adorable.) “Really.”

“Really,” she nods.

He stands up and crosses over to the SUV, where he left his water bottle sitting on the bumper. As he unscrews the cap, he looks Jemma over. She’s in shorts and a tank top, her hair pulled back into a messy braid, and has clearly just rolled out of bed. (His eyes do not linger on her shoulders. Obviously.)

“You always up this early?” he asks.

“Oh, no,” she says, wrinkling her nose a little. (Also not adorable.) “I’m actually something of a night owl. It’s just I never sleep well, the first few nights in a new place. Are you? Always up this early?”

“Usually,” he answers as he puts down the water bottle and pulls on his gloves. “Gotta keep up with my training.”

Jemma shakes her head. “I must admit, your career sounds _exhausting_.”

“Likewise,” he says, which is just…ridiculous. Likewise, Grant, really? “Judging by what you told me last night, I bet I wouldn’t last ten minutes in SciOps.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” she says.

“Trust me,” he says. “It’s definitely true.” He stretches his arms out a little, testing the ache in his shoulders. He’s definitely feeling that fight with Peterson, and it might be best to skip the punching bag this morning. No pain-no gain is all well and good, but it’s stupid to push yourself too hard and risk injury in the name of routine.

“Something wrong?” Jemma asks, her eyebrows scrunching together in concern.

“Just a little sore,” he tells her as he strips off his gloves. “Gonna have to skip the bag this morning.”

“Do you want me to take a look?” she offers. “I’m not that kind of doctor, but I do have my field med certification.”

He’s briefly distracted by the way her accent wraps around the word ‘certification’, so it takes him a moment to process the offer. It’s certainly tempting, but he’s not sure he’s ready to have her hands on him, even if just in a medical capacity. He’s been trying to take this slow, avoiding touching her too much and trying to give her space, and he’s pretty sure his self-control won’t be able to stand up to a medical examination, especially if she does it dressed like that.

“Thanks, but there’s no need,” he says. “I’m just a little bruised.”

It’s even the truth. When he got back to the Bus yesterday he’d been a little concerned about the possibility of glass in his back after breaking that display case, but luckily his leather jacket protected him.

“Well, if you’re sure,” she says a little hesitantly. She still looks concerned, which should not make him feel as good as it does.

“I’m sure,” he confirms. “There is one thing you can do for me, though.”

“And what’s that?”

“Join me for breakfast?” he suggests with what he hopes is a charming smile.

It must be, because she smiles brightly and nods. “It would be my pleasure.”

He needs to take a shower and Jemma’s still in her pajamas, so they agree to meet in the kitchen in fifteen minutes, and that’s exactly what they do. Over breakfast, they discuss their food preferences. It’s probably the single most inane conversation Grant’s ever had, but he savors every minute of it. He enjoys watching the emotions play over Jemma’s face as she tells him about her adventures in cooking (“It’s just like chemistry, but with more delicious conclusions!”) and her favorite things to make. She’s so enthusiastic, so cheerful, and he can’t help the warm feeling that’s growing in his chest.

He is in serious trouble with this whole soulmate thing.

He’s just taken their plates over to the sink when Coulson walks in and promptly ruins his morning.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Coulson says. “We’ll be taking off just as soon as Skye finishes loading her things.”

Grant pauses in the act of reaching for the faucet. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“Skye,” Coulson says. “She’s going to be joining us.”

Apparently feeling that that is the end of that, he leaves the kitchen. Grant follows after throwing an apologetic look to Jemma.

“Skye?” he asks, trailing Coulson into the briefing room. “That girl’s not qualified to be a SHIELD agent.”

“Agreed,” Coulson says as May enters from the other door. “That’s why I’ve invited her on as a consultant. SHIELD does it all the time—technically, Stark’s a consultant.”

“And technically, Skye’s a member of the Rising Tide—she hacked our RSA implementation.”

“Twice,” Coulson interjects, apparently not aware that this only supports Grant’s point. “From a laptop. Imagine what she’ll do with our resources.”

“I am,” Grant tells him, deciding to appeal to Coulson’s sense of humor. “That’s exactly what I’m imagining during this frown.”

The joke makes Coulson smile, so at least there’s that.

“You brought me on for risk assessment? She’s a risk.” Grant takes a deep breath and leans forward. “She doesn’t think like us.”

“Exactly,” Coulson says, and Grant looks to May for help, which she obligingly provides.

“We have two kids on this Bus who _aren’t_ cleared for combat, you’re adding a third,” she says.

“At least Jemma and Fitz are trained SHIELD scientists,” Grant points out. It’s mostly because it helps their argument, but maybe a little of it is him feeling the urge to defend his soulmate and her lesser half. “But _Skye_? You said this was a select team, assembled to work new cases, to _protect_ people. I don’t see how letting some hacker tag along—”

“I’m looking for an objection I haven’t already anticipated,” Coulson interrupts. “I’m calling this. But your frown will be on record.”

“We’ve been called in to investigate an 0-8-4,” Grant says, deciding to switch tactics. He might as well try playing the risk card. “We all know what that means.”

“Yes we do,” Coulson agrees in a much lighter tone. Grant knows then he’s lost the argument. Not that he ever had a chance of winning, of course. Relaxed attitude towards protocol (exhibit one: Grant and his soulmate are still on the same field team) or not, Coulson is still his commanding officer.

Frankly, Grant’s surprised the argument lasted as long as it did. Garrett would’ve knocked him out twenty seconds in. Coulson’s method, closing the subject with nothing more than a change in tone, is much more palatable.

“It means we don’t know what that means,” he continues as he hands May a tablet. She leaves the briefing room with it, and as Grant’s eyes follow her, he notices Jemma and Fitz entering the lounge with Skye.

“Don’t think I didn’t catch that, by the way,” Coulson says, drawing Grant’s attention away from the smile on his soulmate’s face. She, at least, seems happy enough to have Skye on board.

“Catch what, sir?”

“You called her Jemma,” Coulson notes. “It’s almost cute.”

Knowing absolutely no way to respond to that without embarrassing himself further, Grant opts for a strategic withdrawal. He picks up one of the safety pamphlets from the table in the back of the briefing room and takes it out to Skye.

She starts to say something, but he talks right over her. “Might wanna read that. This isn’t like other planes.”

He walks away without giving her a chance to respond. He’d seen Jemma and Fitz head back in the direction of the lounge, presumably on their way back to the lab, but he decides not to follow right away. He’s got thirteen hours to talk to Jemma, he can let her have some time with Fitz.

He also has thirteen hours to deal with the fact that he’s about to take his (non-combat-ready) soulmate not just into the field, but into an active war zone. He needs to get a handle on his feelings about that before he talks to Jemma again, otherwise he’s likely to order her to stay on the Bus.

And he may have only known her for a day, but he already knows exactly how she would react to _that_.

\---

Six hours into the flight, he leaves his bunk with the intention of tracking down Jemma. He hasn’t exactly _dealt_ with the situation, but he has, he thinks, successfully compartmentalized it. The fact of the matter is that there’s no way he can just _accept_ taking Jemma into certain danger that she’s completely unprepared to face. All he can do is protect her, and in order to do that, he has to put his feelings about the situation away. That’s the only way he’ll be able to think clearly.

He hasn’t spent the whole six hours dwelling on his emotions, of course. He knows that protecting Jemma (and Fitz and Skye, he supposes) becomes easier the more variables he eliminates. So he’s spent his time carefully planning and preparing.

He’s read over all of the information SHIELD has on the political situation in Peru, the demonstrated weapons capability of both the rebels and the police, and the 0-8-4—the last of which took all of three minutes. He’s studied road and satellite maps of the archaeological site they’re going to and its surrounding area, just in case they have to make a quick exit. He’s identified six different escape routes they can use, three on foot and three by vehicle. He’s cleaned his sidearm and his backup and sharpened his knife. He’s as prepared as he can be.

It still doesn’t feel like enough, but they’ve still got another seven hours to Peru, so there’s no point in worrying about it anymore. So he goes to find Jemma.

He finds her in the lab, of course. She and Fitz are standing on the far side of the holotable, looking at a projection of some kind of weapon. They’re tossing parts back and forth and talking over each other at a rapid pace.

Jemma spots him through the projection.

“Grant!” she exclaims, breaking into a wide smile. He can’t deny the thrill it gives him that she looks so happy to see him. “Come take a look at this.”

He crosses the room to stand next to her and takes a closer look at the schematic. It’s similar in shape to a handgun, but in style…not so much. “What is it?” he asks.

“It’s a night-night gun!” Fitz says enthusiastically.

“It’s designed to deliver rounds of dendrotoxin,” Jemma tells him. “Which is a paralyzing agent. So you can knock people out without causing them harm.”

Grant doesn’t honestly have much of a problem causing people harm, but saying that…probably wouldn’t go over too well with Jemma. “Could come in handy,” he says instead.

“.45 caliber cartridges, semi-automatic, and each mag,” Fitz says, putting the projection back together, “Will contain eight therapeutic rounds of dendrotoxin.”

“In case you miss,” Jemma interjects playfully. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she rolls her eyes. “Or…have multiple assailants.”

She feels comfortable teasing him. That’s definitely major progress for a single day. In order to keep himself from doing something stupid, like kissing her, Grant looks back at the projection. “So why haven’t you built it yet?”

“We’re still perfecting it,” Jemma says.

“But we’ll have the new night-night pistol working in no time,” Fitz finishes.

“Great,” Grant says. “One thing. We’re not calling it that.”

Jemma makes a smug little sound. “Told you,” she mutters to Fitz.

“Yes, we are,” Fitz mutters back. Grant chooses to ignore it. There is absolutely no way he’ll be using a weapon called a ‘night-night’ gun, no matter how useful it may be.

So instead of continuing the argument, he turns to Jemma.

“I did promise you another talk, didn’t I?” she asks.

“You did.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m in the habit of breaking my promises,” she says. “And in any case, there’s not much more I can do with the dendrotoxin rounds. The rest of this is all Fitz. Shall we go up to the lounge?”

“Lead the way,” he says, and follows her out of the lab and up the stairs.

In the lounge, Grant takes a seat on the couch and Jemma, after an almost imperceptible moment of hesitation, sits down next to him instead of in one of the chairs. Trying to hold back a smile at this development, he repositions himself so he can comfortably face her without actually moving away.

“So,” he says. “Where were we last night? You were telling me something about a class you had to take in…bioinformation?”

“Bioinformatics,” she corrects. “But I think I’ve talked quite enough about myself. I’d like to hear about _you_ now.”

“Fair enough,” he nods. He wants to keep things light, though. Sooner or later he’ll probably have to tell her about his childhood—enough to explain why he has no intention of ever introducing her to his parents, at the very least—but for all that they’ve spent literally hours talking, they’ve still only known each other for a day.

So he tells her some (declassified) stories about his career—the most ridiculous aliases, times assignments have gone hilariously wrong (not often, they usually go _lethally_ wrong), that sort of thing. He makes her laugh with stories of Marco the surfer, Ethan the hippie, and that time in Vienna when he and Trip had to do some emergency restrategizing when they realized the ‘strip club’ they’d followed their target to was actually a ballet studio.

And it’s nice. Aside from a brief trip to the kitchen for lunch, they spend nearly six hours sitting on the couch, just talking. At one point he puts his hand on her thigh for emphasis and then leaves it there, and she just smiles.

Of course, he doesn’t spend the whole time talking. He doesn’t have that many declassified missions, and while he’s more comfortable with Jemma than he ever has been with anyone else, there’s a reason that Maria Hill was reduced to crude drawings in evaluation of his people skills. So after lunch he steers the conversation back in Jemma’s direction, getting her talking about her research.

It goes way over his head, of course, but he enjoys listening to her enthusiastic explanation anyway. She just _enjoys_ it all so much, and it’s completely baffling to him, if endearing. He hasn’t spent much time with SHIELD scientists, but the ones he has only ever showed incredible fascination with their discoveries. They never approached it with the sheer glee that Jemma does.

She’s amazing. Grant’s never been so grateful for his ability to keep a blank face, because otherwise he’s sure he would be wearing a ridiculously, pathetically sappy expression.

Jemma’s just finished explaining the premise of her second doctoral thesis (of which he understood maybe seven words) when she catches sight of the time on his watch.

“Oh,” she says. “We’re nearly there, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” he replies after checking it himself. “It’ll be another hour, maybe.”

“Then I really should go get my equipment gathered,” she says, looking gratifyingly disappointed. “I’m sure Fitz has already started.”

“That’s fine,” Grant says. “I should probably talk to Coulson about the plan anyway.”

“I’ll see you later, then,” she says, standing. “When we leave. To go into the _field_.”

He manages to hold back his wince at the reminder, if only because she looks so excited about it.

“Later,” he agrees.

Jemma takes about two steps away from the couch, pauses, and spins back around to face him.

“Thank you for the conversation, by the way. I had a lovely time.” She leans down over the arm rest and kisses his cheek, then is gone before he can react. Not that that’s saying much—he sits there, frozen, for at least thirty seconds. When he unfreezes, he definitely does not bring his hand up to touch his cheek where she kissed him. Definitely not.

\---

An hour later, when they’re pulling up to the site, Grant’s grateful for that hour by himself. He needed the time to collect himself, to put some distance between his quickly growing feelings for Jemma and his need to do his job. If they had come to this site directly after their conversation, there’s no way he would have been able to pull himself away from her side long enough to do anything that he needs to. As things stand, it’s still going to be a serious effort.

He’s never in his life been a religious man, but he’s sincerely praying that this 0-8-4 is a false alarm and they can leave right away.

“Tire tracks forty meters back,” he says to May. “I’ll check ‘em against the site’s trucks, make sure we’re alone.”

“Too much exposure here,” she replies as he circles around to the back of the SUV. “I’m gonna find a place to park.”

He finds Jemma and Fitz pulling their cases from the trunk and barely resists the urge to drag her along with him. He limits himself to resting his hand on her shoulder for a moment, then walks away without saying anything.

“What was that about?” he hears Fitz ask as he heads for the nearest truck.

“I don’t think he’s very happy about me being in the field,” Jemma replies.

He’s relieved to find that the tire tracks he spotted are a match to the professor’s truck, and heads back to the temple feeling, if not more optimistic, a little less uneasy. At least there aren’t any rebels lying in wait to kill Jemma as soon as his back is turned. Or, if there are, they’re on foot, which will make it much easier to get away from them.

Grant’s not in the habit of running away, but he’s not about to risk Jemma’s life over something as pointless as pride. Also, he really would like to avoid letting her see him kill someone for as long as possible.

When he reaches the temple, he finds May standing right outside it and the professor just leaving.

“Tires match the prof’s truck,” he tells her. As she walks down the steps toward him, he’s surprised to realize she’s unarmed. “Where’s your sidearm?”

“If I need a gun, I’ll take one,” she says. Grant’s not entirely sure how he feels about that, considering the fact that he’s counting on her to help him protect Jemma (and the others, he supposes), but, well. She _is_ the Cavalry.

“Right. Forgot I was working with the Cavalry.”

She gives him a sharp look. “Don’t _ever_ call me that.”

“Apologies,” he says, raising his hands slightly. May is the last person he wants to offend, so he’s about to drop the subject when he spots movement in the nearby bushes. He keeps talking while he moves, trying to appear casual. “I’ve heard the stories. What went down in Bahrain. About you in action.”

He can see that May’s getting annoyed, but there’s definitely someone in the bushes. He keeps himself from tensing up by sheer force of will. “You know, it was smart of Coulson to pull you out of retirement. It’s nice to have a…trusted friend who has your back.”

Before he even finishes speaking, he reaches into the bush and pulls out the man who was hiding inside, flipping him to the ground. He keeps his gun trained on him as May knocks out another two, but then two vehicles pull up, blocking both of the roads and expelling more men. Grant hauls up the one from the bush and uses him as a shield as he aims his gun at approximately five men.

They’re far outnumbered, and Jemma is just inside the temple, without even a door to hide behind.

“Shoulda taken more guns,” he says to May, trying to distract himself from that thought.

A woman comes out of one of the trucks, and he’s surprised to notice that she’s wearing a patch of the national police. A quick look around proves that all of the men are dressed the same way. It’s possible that this is all just a misunderstanding, in which case Coulson and his diplomacy skills are needed. Even if it’s not, Coulson should be informed so that he can protect Jemma. And Fitz and Skye, of course.

He activates his radio. “Sir?”

“Go.”

“We have a situation,” he says, still keeping a wary eye on the men surrounding them.

“I’m on my way.”

Coulson comes out of the temple and introduces himself in Spanish, telling the surrounding troops that he’s from an international security agency. Before he can get any further, however, the woman steps forward and says, “Phillip?”

Grant exchanges a glance with May.

“Camilla?” Coulson asks, sounding just as surprised. “Do you mind?”

“After you,” the woman says, and Coulson gives Grant a nod.

He reluctantly releases the man he’s been using as a shield and lowers his gun. May follows suit, and the woman tells her men to lower their weapons. Once they comply, the woman goes up the steps to kiss Coulson on each cheek.

“Commandante,” Coulson says. “A promotion, congratulations.”

“Three years ago, but thank you.”

“Agent Melinda May, Agent Grant Ward, this is _Commandante_ Camilla Reyes. She’s with the Policia Militar de Perú,” Coulson says. “We used to work together back in the day.”

As happy as Grant is that he doesn’t have to fight his way past twenty armed men while his soulmate is defenseless, this is a bit too much of a coincidence for his taste. He resolves to keep an eye on Reyes. He can tell May is thinking the same thing, and they exchange a look.

“Let the team know everything’s okay,” Coulson orders, and Grant nods and heads into the temple.

Jemma and Fitz are kneeling on the ground, looking over tablets while some of their flying robots (what did Jemma call them? Dwarves?) hover over what Grant presumes is the 0-8-4, which Skye is standing worryingly close to.

“We’ve got company,” he tells them, flicking his eyes over Jemma to make sure she’s still unharmed. Not that there’s any reason for her to be harmed, since she’s been in the temple this whole time, but still. He thinks he should be commended for restricting himself to a quick visual examination instead of bodily dragging her back to the Bus. “National police.”

“What?” Jemma asks.

“Why are they here?” Fitz continues, twisting around to look at the door.

“They heard about this object, they’re probably here to protect it,” Grant tells them, approaching the 0-8-4. It’s firmly lodged in the wall and glowing a slightly disquieting blue. “This area has lots of rebel uprisings.”

“Yeah,” Skye says, giving him a dirty look like he’s personally responsible for the political situation in Peru. “People are fighting back against the government’s mining policies. It’s pretty kickass.”

Grant turns to look at her. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s kickass, all the violence.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Skye says quietly.

“No, it’s what you’re _typing_. Alone, in your van, where it’s safe.” Dismissing her, he turns to look at Jemma and Fitz. “How much longer?”

“What’s the hurry?” Jemma asks, looking up from her tablet.

“Are we in danger?” Fitz demands at the same time.

“Not if everyone does their job,” he replies, then looks at Skye. “What is yours, exactly?”

She looks uncomfortable, which Grant can’t help but enjoy. Hearing her call the violence ‘kickass’ when he’s worrying so much about Jemma’s safety really rubs him the wrong way. And honestly, even if Jemma were safely back on the Bus, it would still be a tacky thing to say. He’s spent a lot of time in unstable regions. There’s nothing kickass about it.

He turns away from Skye and moves closer to Jemma. She looks away from her tablet to give him a slightly worried smile.

“We heard the shouting,” she says quietly. “Did you have to fight someone? Have you injured your back further?”

He has to admit he’s pleased that she remembers he was sore this morning, especially since it was only a brief exchange and they spent most of the day talking.

“I’m fine,” he tells her. “And the shouting was just a misunderstanding.”

She looks unconvinced, so he gives her a smile. “Really,” he promises. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

After a moment, she looks back down at her tablet. Fitz asks her a question, of which Grant only understands the articles, and she’s quickly distracted, showing him something on her tablet.

Their incomprehensible conversation is interrupted by the sound of a distant explosion, followed quickly by gunfire and another explosion.  The temple shakes slightly and dust falls from the ceiling. Grant barely manages to check his instinctive move to cover Jemma.

“Sounds like they’re engaging with rebels,” he says, turning to the door. “Let’s go!”

He pulls out his gun and, when the others fail to react quickly, prompts them again. Fitz and Jemma fuss with the robots, shooing Skye away when she tries to help, and he ignores them until Jemma says, “We need a containment case for the 0-8-4!”

“No time,” he tells her.

Fitz says something about a power core, but Grant’s distracted by another explosion that shakes the temple.

“Sorry,” he says, holstering his gun as he crosses the room and reaches for the 0-8-4. “Science class is over.”

“Whoa!” Fitz yells as Grant pulls the 0-8-4 out of the wall. “You did _not_ just pull that out of the wall, what is the matter with you?”

Grant shoves the 0-8-4 into a duffle bag and puts it on Fitz’s back as the other man continues to babble. Grant ignores the constant stream of chatter as he pulls his gun out and heads for the door.

“Stay close,” he says to Jemma. Then he leads the way out of the temple. After a quick check that there are no friendlies in the line of fire, he begins shooting. The rebels have machine guns, so he orders Jemma and the others back as he pulls out a sonic staff. Not exactly standard issue for field work, but he’d thought it might come in handy, considering the ‘field’ is an active war zone today. He’s not glad to be proven right, but he is glad he’s got it.

He hears Reyes shout for her men to get down and rolls down the stairs, stabbing the sonic staff into the ground. Once he’s sure it’s activated, he ducks to avoid the sonic blast. It’s highly effective, and he can hear the rebels shouting as they’re knocked down. He pulls the staff out of the ground as he stands up, then motions Jemma and the others away from the temple.

May pulls up in the SUV just as one of the rebels manages to get a few shots off, and Grant yells at the others to get in even as May opens the passenger side door for him. He hears them scramble into the back seat as he closes his door, and risks a glance over his shoulder to make sure Jemma’s okay. Then he turns back to May as she floors it.

“Coulson’s secure in PMP’s truck,” he tells her as they set off, followed quickly by a jeep full of rebels. He’s grateful that he spent those hours memorizing maps of the area, as it’s hard to read the GPS when they’re driving so quickly over uneven ground. “Take the south right to the airfield.”

“Gotcha,” May says.

There’s some discussion in the backseat about overheating and the need for slowing down (Fitz is joking, right?) before Jemma rolls down her window slightly. There’s the sound of more gunshots, and the three in the backseat shriek.

“Do _not_ roll down your window!” Skye says.

“Stay quiet and keep your heads _down_ ,” Grant snaps at all three of them. Then he turns back to May. “Head left, the ravine empties.”

He’s grateful for the adrenaline flooding his system. All of his fear, all of his worry over Jemma, is so much easier to push to the back burner when he’s focused on making sure they get to the Bus as soon as possible.

“But Ward—” Fitz tries to protest.

“Quiet!” he and May snap in unison. She reaches out and hits the nav screen, lowering the Bus’ cargo ramp in anticipation of their quick entrance.

“How fast can you have the wheels up?” he asks her.

“Fast.”

Finally, they reach the Bus, and May drives directly up the ramp, coming to a screeching halt as the PMP truck peels off. Coulson must have told them there’s no room for another vehicle in the cargo bay.

“Ramp!” May shouts as they exit the SUV.

“On it,” he says, running to the control panel.

“What are you doing?” Skye asks him. “Coulson’s still out there!”

Frankly, Coulson and his resurrected ass can stay out there, as far as he’s concerned. What the hell was the man thinking, letting Jemma and Fitz onto a field team? Only his long years of practice at holding his tongue keeps him from voicing that thought as he pulls Skye away.

“Get off the ramp,” he tells her. “You’re in the line of fire!”

He heads down the ramp and provides cover fire as Coulson and the PMP men get out of their truck and head for the Bus. The ramp starts to rise before the last man even makes it fully on board, and the plane starts to rise at the same time.

“Cut it pretty close, sir,” Grant says to Coulson as he holsters his gun. He’s proud of himself for keeping his tone respectful.

“Didn’t wanna leave anyone behind,” Coulson replies, holstering his own weapon.

“I gotta say it,” Skye mutters. “I miss my van.”

“Now,” Grant says, looking Jemma over. She looks slightly pale, but otherwise fine. “What was the problem?”

“As I said before,” Fitz says breathlessly. “This device has a high-frequency fluctuating…”

Grant automatically tunes him out, which is unhelpful in the extreme.

“Fitz,” he interrupts. “In English.”

“The 0-8-4,” Fitz starts again, sounding exasperated. “Is fueled by tesseract technology. HYDRA, World War II, Captain America. It’s full of lethal amounts of gamma radiation.”

Grant has to call on his training to keep from flinching at the mention of HYDRA, but there are more important things to think about at the moment.

“Gamma,” he echoes. “You’re saying it’s nuclear.”

There’s a nuclear device on board, and they’re in flight. Fucking perfect.

“No,” Coulson says. “He’s saying it’s much, much worse.”

As one, they all move back from the bag containing the 0-8-4—even Fitz and Jemma, who already knew about the danger the device posed.

Coulson heads to the cockpit to report in to HQ while Jemma gently picks up the 0-8-4.

“Let’s get this out of the cargo bay, shall we?” she asks shakily. She goes into the lab before he can respond, and Skye follows her. As much as he hates to leave Jemma alone with a device which has just been described as being worse than nuclear, Grant decides that he needs a moment before he joins her. The adrenaline’s beginning to wear off, and he needs to regain his calm before he does something stupid like order her to resign from the team and go back to a lab post.

She won’t listen, he reminds himself as he heads further back into the cargo area. Ordering her around will only make her angry at him, and even if she does leave the team, she’ll only transfer to another. At least if she’s on this team, he can keep an eye on her. There’s no one else he’d trust her safety to, not even Garrett.

Of course, there’s always the chance that the experience today will be enough to change her mind about wanting to do field work, but his luck’s not usually that good.

He detours into one of the storage closets and pulls some gauze and antiseptic wipes out of a drawer. There’s a burning in his side where he’s pretty sure a bullet grazed him, and he wants to check how bad it is before he decides whether or not to bother Jemma with it. If it doesn’t need stitches, he can handle it himself, and there’s no need to worry Jemma. He’s just lifted his shirt to take a look at the wound when he hears footsteps in the hall. He slides the first aid supplies into his pocket and exits the closet to see Fitz approaching.

“I need—” Fitz says, indicating the closet.

“Go ahead,” Grant says, moving aside.

Fitz goes into the closet and comes out a moment later holding a small black case.

“Need to run scans on the 0-8-4,” he mutters, lifting the case slightly in explanation.

“Yeah,” Grant says, his anger suddenly rushing back. “Why _exactly_ didn’t you say anything about the 0-8-4 being _worse than nuclear_?”

He knows he’s being unreasonable. Even if he had known how dangerous the 0-8-4 was, there really was no other option but to bring it on board. It’s not like they could have just left it for the rebels. But he can’t stop thinking about all the things that could have gone wrong today, all the times Jemma could have been hurt. He can’t yell at Coulson, not if he wants to keep his position on this team, but Fitz is fair game.

“Are you mental?” Fitz demands as they enter the lab. “I did explain in _great detail_ exactly what I meant, using the Queen's bloody English!”

“I use _normal_ English,” Grant replies. “Words like duck, and run, and _might blow us to pieces_.”

“Oh, wow! Wow, congratulations, Agent Ward,” Fitz says, pulling a remarkably gun-shaped instrument from the case. “You managed to string _three_ words together in a sentence.”

Grant refrains from pointing out that that was significantly more than three words, and instead takes a deep breath. This is Jemma’s best friend. She said, yesterday, that they’re like siblings. She won’t take it well if Grant hauls off and hits him.

Instead, Grant steers the conversation back around to the fact that Fitz needs to learn to speak simply when they’re in peril. Grant can’t protect anyone from danger if he’s going to need a science-to-English dictionary just to know that the danger exists.

Naturally, however, Fitz takes this as an opportunity to continue insulting Grant’s intelligence, and Grant is getting very close to punching the annoying engineer, regardless of what Jemma might think, when Coulson enters.

“Do we have a problem in here?” Coulson asks.

“No, sir. Just working on our communication,” Grant replies. “Not everyone was prepared for a firefight.”

He can’t help looking at Jemma when he says it, and she rolls her eyes. He can tell he’s upset her with his treatment of Fitz, but he’s in no mood to placate her. To be honest, he’s just as likely to yell at her as anyone else at the moment.

“We got out, didn't lose anyone, saved a few of theirs. I'd say we did all right. Anything else?”

Catching movement in his peripheral vision, Grant turns to see Skye raising her hand.

“Uh, yeah,” she says. “I have a small question. Because I've been feeling like the tagalong hayseed rookie, but now I get the sense that _Ward_ doesn't know which one's Simmons and which one's Fitz, and they've seen even _less_ gunfire than me, and I'm no rocket scientist, but…is this your first mission together?”

Grant’s slightly insulted that Skye thinks he can’t tell his soulmate from her significantly more annoying partner, but he’s also amused to note that Skye motions to Fitz when she says Simmons, and vice versa. Maybe she’s projecting.

“No,” Jemma says at once, and Grant turns to look at her. “Of course not! It’s our second.”

And that, despite his bad mood, is just adorable. His anger decreases, just a little.

Of course, Skye brings it all right back. “I was your first? That’s sweet.”

“You’re _amused_?” he asks her, disbelieving.

“I’m _terrified_!” she corrects him. “I am in _way_ over my head, but I have been on this team just as long as any of you. I might as well be team captain.”

Jemma scoffs and turns away, while Coulson just stares at Skye, blank faced.

“Joking,” Skye mutters. “But, maybe that's not a bad idea, because these guys do not like each other much.”

Grant rolls his eyes at that and turns back to Coulson.

“This _isn't_ about that,” he says. “I'm a _specialist_. Today, I could have eliminated the enemy threat myself if I was working alone, but I had non-combat-ready agents...”

“Whoa, whoa. Wait. You work _alone_?” Fitz interrupts as Jemma passes Grant to stand next to him. He tries not to take it personally and fails.

“ _So_ typical,” Jemma says angrily. Maybe he was meant to take it personally. “Who do you think _designs_ your equipment?”

“Or the polymers for your weaponry?” Fitz asks.

“Yeah,” Jemma agrees. “Trying going into the field with just your bare bum!”

“People like us do it,” Fitz says over her, motioning between the two of them.

Skye, meanwhile, has walked around the table to stand with Coulson. “See them proving the point I just made?”

“You’re not wrong,” Coulson says loudly. “We still need to iron out the kinks. But Ward, you can speak six languages. Simmons, you have two PhDs in fields I can’t pronounce, and Fitz, you _are_ a rocket scientist. So work it out.”

As he turns and walks away, Skye calls after him, “I’m—I’m good at stuff, too!”

Grant can’t even be amused at her continued discomfort. He sighs and turns back to face Fitz. He knows he’s going to have to apologize if he wants to stay in Jemma’s good graces, so he will. Even if he is still completely irritated at Fitz’s tendency to pull out his six-syllable words when simple words like ‘explosive’ would work better.

“Fitz,” he says to get his attention, since the engineer has turned away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It’s not your fault the 0-8-4 is so dangerous.”

“Oh,” Fitz says weakly, sounding completely stunned. “Well. That’s. You’re—you’re forgiven, I suppose.”

Grant turns slightly to include Jemma in the conversation. “And I’m sorry if I made it sound like I don’t value the work you two do. I know how much SHIELD scientists contribute to field work. I’m just not used to needing to watch anyone’s back but my own.”

“Apology accepted,” Jemma says after exchanging a look with Fitz. “And Fitz is very sorry for insulting your intelligence, aren’t you Fitz?”

“Yes, well,” Fitz grumbles. “I may have been a bit harsh.”

“Apology accepted,” Grant says, despite knowing that Fitz isn’t even a little bit sorry. It’s fair enough—Grant’s not actually all that sorry, either. At least not for arguing with Fitz. He does regret upsetting Jemma, though. Speaking of whom, she still looks like she might faint. Or cry. It could just be the adrenaline wearing off. In fact, it probably is. But it couldn’t hurt to make sure.

He takes a few steps closer to her, hoping to block Fitz and Skye out of the conversation.

“Are you okay, Jemma?” he asks, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You look a little pale.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she says, in what is probably supposed to be a nonchalant tone. Mostly she sounds like she’s about to be sick. “I’m just—I’m not accustomed to being shot at, as you know. It was…rather more exciting than I was expecting.”

“But you’re not hurt?” he checks.

“I’m not hurt, Grant,” she promises, giving him a small smile. “Are you? I saw your leap down the stairs, you know. It was very impressive, but it couldn’t have been good for your back when you’re already injured.”

“I’m fine,” he tells her, squeezing her shoulders a little. He can’t help it. It’s not like he hasn’t spent every moment of the last thirty-eight hours wanting to kiss her, and her clear concern over his well-being is just increasing the urge.

(And he is absolutely not getting a rush from touching her shoulders. They’re just _shoulders_ , for God’s sake, there’s nothing sexy about it. He’s definitely not remembering the way the tank top she was wearing this morning showed off her collarbones and how weirdly appealing that was. Definitely not.)

“Well, good,” she says. She gives a little nod and then raises her hands to wrap them around his and pull them off her shoulders. Once she does, though, she doesn’t let go, and stands there holding his hands as she looks up at him. “Fitz and I need to run more tests on the 0-8-4.”

“Right,” he says. He glances down at his watch. “Almost dinner time. You want me to bring you some food down later?”

“No, thank you,” Jemma says. “No food in the lab. But…if you could please come down and remind us to go up and get some? Fitz and I do tend to get a bit absorbed in our work.”

“I can do that,” he says. He squeezes her hands once and then lets go. “I’ll come get you in about two hours.”

“Thank you,” she says, giving him a bright smile. She still looks a little pale, but no longer like she’s on the verge of collapse, so he steps back and, after a brief nod at Fitz and Skye, leaves the lab.

Of course, he goes through the door that leads back to the storage area, rather than the cargo bay. He saw the look on Skye’s face just now, and he has a feeling he’s going to want to hear the conversation that follows. It’s much easier to eavesdrop without getting caught when you’re not standing beside a glass wall.

“What was _that_?” Skye demands, sounding entertainingly freaked.

“What was what?” Jemma asks distractedly.

“Ward. Calling you Jemma and touching you and _smiling_ at you. It’s like he was suddenly replaced with a real human being!”

“Oh, that,” Jemma says. “No one told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Grant and I are soulmates.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and Grant takes the opportunity to check on his side. He pulls the antiseptic wipe out of its package and quickly cleans up the blood around the wound. It’s just a graze, as he thought, and he can definitely take care of it himself. He’s just lucky his jacket covers the growing bloodstain on his shirt. He’s going to have to get rid of this one.

“You’re _what_?” Skye finally chokes out. It’s almost funny, how stunned she sounds. He knows she has some very strong ideas of who he is (as evidenced by the crack she just made about him not being human), and a soulmate as sweet and kind as Jemma probably doesn’t fit into those ideas very well.

“Soulmates,” Jemma repeats patiently.

“Wow. I did _not_ see that coming.”

“Yes, that does seem to be the general reaction,” Jemma muses.

“When did you meet?” Skye asks. “Because until that weird scene, I never would have guessed.”

“Yesterday,” Jemma replies. He hears movement, and Fitz hisses a sharp, “Careful!”

“Yesterday? Seriously?” Skye asks incredulously. “It only took Ward _one day_ to unbend enough to show you human emotion?”

“They’ve been very cozy,” Fitz grouses. “I’m surprised you didn’t see them this afternoon, hanging all over each other in the lounge.”

“We were _not_ ,” Jemma sighs. “We were sitting next to each other, that’s all. We were talking! I’m allowed to speak to my soulmate, Fitz.”

“You were not just _talking_ ,” Fitz argues. “He had his hand on your thigh!”

“Oh, well if he had his hand on my thigh!” Jemma exclaims. “You might as well turn him in to HQ for the high crime of touching his soulmate, then!”

Grant can’t quite make out what Fitz mutters in response, but it seems to placate Jemma, at least a little.

“Fitz,” she says in a much gentler tone. “You are my _best friend_ , practically my brother, even, and Grant is my soulmate. It would mean a lot to me if you would learn to get along with him.”

“I can’t promise that,” Fitz replies a little sulkily.

“Can you promise to try?” Jemma wheedles.

“Oh, fine,” Fitz says. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” Jemma says. “And Skye, I know Grant’s been a little…abrasive, but to be fair you did hack our organization just yesterday. Give him a chance, please.”

Skye sighs. “Yeah, okay.”

“I really think you two will get along very well, if you allow yourselves,” Jemma continues thoughtfully. “Your sense of humor compliments his quite nicely.”

“Ward? Sense of humor?” Skye echoes. “Are we _sure_ we’re talking about the same person?”

“Yes,” Jemma says. “I’m sure. Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but we really do need to run these tests.”

“Oh, right,” Skye says sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Grant turns and heads down the hallway, not wanting to get caught eavesdropping. He needs to take care of this graze anyway.

\---

Two hours later, after treating his graze, changing his shirt, and a quick meal of his own, Grant goes back to the lab and ushers Jemma and Fitz upstairs for dinner. It takes four tries, and Grant would be annoyed if it weren’t so funny, the way they keep saying ‘five more minutes’ like children who don’t want to get out of bed. Eventually he gets them upstairs, and is treated to the FitzSimmons show as they spend the whole time theorizing over the possible origins of the 0-8-4.

They mostly ignore him the whole time, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. Perversely enough, Fitz’s persistent dislike of him actually makes him like the engineer more. He likes that Jemma has someone in her life who’s so protective of her, who cares about her so much.

He remembers being seventeen, alone in those woods with Buddy and hoping that his soulmate had a loving, supportive family. It’s becoming increasingly obvious that whatever her relationship might be with her parents, she’s found a brother who loves her dearly in Fitz. He can only be grateful for that, and it makes him more inclined to forgive Fitz’s annoying quirks.

Ten minutes into their meal, Jemma suddenly gets hit with an epiphany that Fitz immediately picks up on, and they rush back to the lab, leaving their dinners half eaten. Grant rolls his eyes and gives it up as a bad job. At least they’ve eaten something, and it’s not like the kitchen closes. They can always come get more food when they’re done in the lab.

Grant cleans up after them, his training not allowing him to leave a mess alone when he sees it, and then detours to his bunk to pick up _Matterhorn_ before making himself comfortable on the lounge couch. He could read in his bunk, of course, but he’d like to keep an eye on the PMP soldiers. He knows there was no other choice, but he’s really not happy about having highly trained men he doesn’t know on the Bus.

He’s been reading for less than an hour when Skye walks up.

“Hunger Games?” she asks.

“ _Matterhorn_ ,” he tells her. “One of a hundred books my SO gave me that I’m…just getting around to.” Seeing her blank look, he continues, “SO? Supervising officer?”

“Got it. Hackers have lingo, too, but I’ll pick yours up,” she says, then takes a deep breath. “I feel like you and me? Wrong foot. Can I…buy you a drink?”

He’s amused that she’s already complying with Jemma’s request to give him a chance, and even more amused that she apparently thinks the best way to do so is with alcohol. However, he has a feeling that as soon as she has him alone, Jemma’s going to ask _him_ to give Fitz and Skye a chance, so he waves her at a chair.

“What I said before,” she says, choosing to sit on the table instead. “When I said the uprising was…whatever I said. A good thing? I don’t want you to think I’m oblivious. What I was talking about was…the tweets.”

Grant has no idea how she thinks that’s going to improve his opinion of her. The _tweets_? Seriously?

“Tweets,” he echoes. “You trying to make things better or worse?”

“Peruvians have organized for the first time in _decades_ ,” Skye tells him as she opens the bottle. “Thousands of suffering people who’ve _never met_ , uniting over a common idea? It's…mind blowing. And, I don’t wanna bring it up, because I don’t wanna see your hate face, but…that’s what the Rising Tide is all about.”

“Okay,” Grant says slowly.

“Usually, one person doesn’t have the solution. But, a hundred people, with one percent of the solution? That’ll get it done. I think…that’s beautiful. Pieces solving a puzzle.”

She breaks off and takes a deep breath.

Grant’s getting the sinking feeling that Jemma and Skye are going to get along really well, which means _he’s_ going to have to get along with Skye, in order to keep things pleasant. Certainly, that little speech would definitely resonate with Jemma.

And he has to admit it sounds nice. It’s a complete pipedream, of course. You can’t trust people like that. You can’t depend on other people to want the same thing you want. If you have one hundred people with one percent of the solution, the whole thing will come crashing down, because they’ll all be working for their own ends.

But it’s a nice fantasy, and he can see where Skye’s coming from.

“You and I see the world differently, is all,” he says, sitting up and taking the drink she’d poured while she was talking.

“I’ve never been in a warzone…during a war,” she tells him. “’Til today. It was…crazy. Take it you’ve seen that a lot?”

He’s not about to answer that question, so he takes a sip of his drink and then leans forward to put it down. This is apparently a mistake, as Skye lets out a little gasp.

“Wh-did you get shot?” she demands. “You told Simmons you were fine!”

“Skin deep,” he tells her, glancing down at his side. He resists the urge to swear when he sees the blood near the hem. He must’ve bled through the bandage. That’s two shirts ruined in one day. “Nothing to worry Jemma over.”

“You got _shot_ ,” Skye says. “Did that happen protecting us?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, no wonder you were so pissed.”

“I wasn’t pissed,” he corrects her. Well, he was, a little, but that was everything to do with Jemma being in the line of fire and nothing to do with being hurt himself. Still, he’s not about to admit that to Skye. He goes with a truth that’s a little less emotional. “I was trained to be the whole solution, to eliminate variables. And today, they keep adding up.”

Skye looks down and sighs a little, then suddenly straightens.

“You don’t have a timer,” she says.

“What?” Grant asks. He’s distracted, looking over at the men playing cards by the window. Something about the scene just isn’t right, but he can’t quite place it.

“Simmons said you’re her soulmate,” Skye expands. “But you don’t have a timer. Why not?”

“SOP—standard operating procedure,” he explains, looking back at her. “All specialists have our timers removed as soon as we graduate from the Academy. Can’t go undercover as a married man if you’ve still got a timer counting down in plain sight.”

“Oh.”

“Why don’t you?” he asks, genuinely curious. That pieces of a puzzle speech didn’t sound like the kind of thing someone who was against the idea of soulmates would say.

“Didn’t take,” she says uncomfortably. “Went to get a timer when I was ten and they couldn’t make it stick.”

Grant winces. He can’t help it. Less than one percent of the population are incompatible with timers, but it was still a constant fear of his right up to the moment he woke up after his installation. It’s always seemed, to him, like a particularly cruel quirk of genetics, to deny some people the chance to count down to that meeting.

He’s saved from having to find a response to the revelation when the plane suddenly starts to turn, distracting Skye.

“We’re turning,” she says, looking up.

“We’ve entered restricted airspace,” he tells her, “so we have to follow certain flight paths. It’s regulation. This plane is capable of fully automated flight, but May has to be on the stick herself tonight.”

Skye huffs out a little laugh. “You've got an SO. May's got to be on the _stick_. Lots of good lingo on this plane.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “We just can’t seem to understand each other.”

He looks back at the men by the window and suddenly realizes what’s wrong with the picture. They’ve been over there since before he sat down, and both still have full drinks. He takes a casual look around the lounge and only keeps himself from tensing up by sheer force of will. One of the men is missing.

Suddenly everything clicks into place. The ‘coincidence’ of the PMP sending out a woman that Coulson used to work with. The rebels appearing so quickly—probably tipped off, meant to cause a distraction, and when that didn’t work, it gave Reyes and her men an excuse to board the Bus with them.

It’s tempting to run straight down to the lab, make sure that Jemma’s not in danger. But it would be stupid. If he were going to take over this plane, take down this team, he’d start with May. They need to take her out before she realizes what’s happening, or they’ll never have a chance. More than that, if they take out May, they’ll be the ones flying the Bus.

He needs to get to May before anyone else does. If they’re the ones flying the Bus, it won’t matter if he’s standing right in front of Jemma with a machine gun, she’ll still be in danger. He needs to get to May first, or at least get close enough to tip her off that something’s going down.

Cursing himself for leaving his weapons in his bunk, he turns to Skye. “Skye, hand me the bottle.”

“Okay, turbo,” she says with a little smirk. “But you’re still…nursing the one you got.”

He takes the bottle from her. “I’m not the only one.”

She darts a glance towards the men, apparently picking up on his meaning. He’ll admit to being slightly impressed by that.

He sees movement, one of the men by the window—the one with the cap—about to stand, and he’s up and off the couch in a moment. He shoves Skye out of the way and uses the momentum from that to shove the man’s arm to the table and then smash the bottle on his hand. Grant punches the guy over the back of the couch, then makes a move for the cockpit.

He’s delayed by another one of Reyes’ men, who blocks him and then grabs him. Grant shoves the guy against a column, manages to hit him and knock him out, but it’s too much of a delay, he’s too slow—

He looks up to see Coulson run down the stairs and his gaze catches on the monitor showing the feed from the lab. One of Reyes’ men is in there, holding a scalpel to Fitz’s neck. Jemma’s there, too, but she’s standing back, obviously not willing to do anything that might cause Reyes’ man to hurt Fitz.

He hears one of the remaining men grab Skye, but he can’t pull his eyes away from the terrified look on Jemma’s face. As Coulson moves to confront Reyes, Grant promises himself he’s going to kill Reyes and every single one of her men for putting that look on his soulmate’s face. He’s going to do it quickly, with extreme prejudice, and he’s not going to face even a halfhearted reprimand for it, not after this.

\---

Reyes needs Coulson to confirm the change of course with SHIELD HQ, but the rest of them get tied up in the cargo bay, including an unconscious May. They’re left with only one guard, which is a little insulting, but Grant plans to take full advantage of it. Just as soon as he figures out a plan.

“Are you okay?” he asks Jemma.

“Yes, fine,” she says. “Fitz is the one who got held at scalpel point.” She sounds indignant, like she can’t believe anyone would have the nerve to threaten _Fitz_ , and it almost makes him smile.

“This is my fault,” Fitz says gloomily. “Should’ve learnt kung-fu.”

“Uh, yeah, but I shouldn’t have pushed you into the field in the first place,” Jemma says. “You weren’t _ready_.”

Despite the situation, he’s a little amused by their attitudes towards this. Especially the way Jemma sounds like she thinks Fitz learning kung-fu is something she should have waited for. But he can’t let them continue to think that this is their fault, because that’s just ridiculous.

“It was my job to make a proper threat assessment—” he starts to say, but he’s interrupted by Skye.

“This couldn't have happened if Agent May wasn't on the stick. She would have…busted out some of her ninja know-how.”

Fitz and Jemma turn to look at her, incredulous. Apparently they missed the Cavalry memo.

“Agent May? No. No, no,” Fitz says. “She transferred from administration.”

Jemma nods in agreement.

“Well, I’ve seen her _destroy_ a guy, so…” Skye trails off, and Jemma and Fitz turn to look at Grant.

(This is absolutely not the time to be noticing how adorable Jemma looks when she’s confused. Get with the damn program, Ward.)

“You’ve heard of the Cavalry?” he prompts.

“Yeeeah,” Fitz and Jemma say at the same time.

“Everyone at the Academy talks about sto—” Fitz suddenly stops. He and Jemma seem to realize it simultaneously.

“She’s the Cavalry?” they ask.

“I told you never to call me that,” May says. She sounds distinctly unamused.

“Oh, I can’t believe it,” Jemma says, obviously relieved. “Oh, we’re sure to get out of here now.” She leans forward to look at May. “Um, _how_ do we get out of here?”

May sits up. “Can’t go through the doors, they’re bolted—tied to the pressurization lines. You two _geniuses_ have nothing?”

“Yeah, well, it’s hard to concentrate in these intense situations,” Fitz says. He’s obviously on the verge of panic, and Jemma doesn’t look much better. He needs to keep them calm. And, looking past them at Skye, it suddenly occurs to him how.

“Hey,” Grant says softly. “Don’t freeze up. Take a breath. You don’t need to come up with the whole solution. Just…part of it. Right?”

“Yeah,” Skye agrees. “Pieces, solving a puzzle.” She pauses, then says, “Wait. Pressurization.”

“What?” he asks.

“The doors are tied to the pressurization lines. So if the plane is depressurized, the doors will open. Right?”

“Okay, but the only way to depres—” Fitz breaks off. “You want to blow a hole in the bloody plane? No!”

“Do you have a better idea?” Skye demands. “They’ve got Coulson, and they’re flying the plane. We don’t have much _leverage_ here.”

Fitz starts to argue, but Grant interrupts.

“Even if it is our best play, there’s no way to depressurize the main cabin from down here. If we blow a hole in the cargo bay, all we’ll do is end up getting sucked out of it ourselves.”

“Oh,” Skye deflates. “Good point.”

Jemma makes a little noise, staring at the lab. She’s obviously thought of something, and as Grant watches she turns to Fitz and says, “We were lucky.”

“What?” Fitz asks.

“We were _lucky_ ,” Jemma repeats, like that means something. It obviously does to Fitz, because his eyes widen.

“No, no, no,” he says. “ _No_. You have got to be bloody joking.”

“Well I’m open to other ideas if you’ve got them, Fitz!”

Fitz starts to argue, so Grant interrupts, “Guys! What are we talking about here?”

“The 0-8-4,” Jemma tells him. “We’ve discovered that it has an amplifier, which is highly—” Fitz nudges her, and she stops and takes a deep breath. “You don’t care about that. The point is, if we can send one of the drones up and set it to scan the 0-8-4, it will be set off. It _should_ emit a laser beam which will easily damage the plane enough to depressurize the cabin.”

Grant exchanges a look with May and then Skye. “Okay,” he says. “That’s a pretty good start.”

\---

Their plan is basically insane, but it’s insane enough to work. There are some elements of it that he’s not happy about—like the part where Jemma goes to get the 0-8-4 instead of staying safely in the lab until everything’s taken care of—but he’s just going to have to live with it. All five of them are going to be necessary to pull this off.

Time is of the essence, but he can’t help taking a moment, once the others have all been harnessed together and the drone is off into the ventilation, to talk to Jemma.

“Be careful,” he tells her. There are so many things that can go wrong with this plan, it honestly makes him a little sick just to think of it.

“I will if you will,” she says with a shaky smile. “Please don’t get sucked out of the airplane.”

He smiles a little as he triple checks her harness. “I’ll do my best.”

Then it’s time to go, and they head up the stairs to stand on the walkway above the lab.

“Simmons,” Fitz says. “Forget what I said before. _This_ is the moment that we’ll regret.”

Then he presses the screen of his tablet and all hell breaks loose.

\---

Once they’re in the lounge, he loses track of Jemma and the others. He deals with the soldier with the gun first, and then takes the others down, one by one. It’s not easy, fighting in these conditions, and it gets even harder when the plane suddenly pitches, likely due to May fighting the man in the cockpit. He has a seatbelt wrapped around one hand, which keeps him from getting sucked out of the plane, but it also means he’s fighting one-handed against an enemy force which greatly outnumbers him.

He hears shouting from Jemma and Fitz, but he can’t afford to focus on them. He’s just finished knocking out another of the soldiers when something slams hard into his back, making him lose his grip on the seatbelt. He just barely manages to anchor himself on one of the wooden columns of the glass screen in the middle of the lounge and grabs the soldier that just slammed into him.

He’s still furious at these soldiers for taking over the Bus, and for threatening Fitz and scaring Jemma, and he will absolutely kill Reyes if given the chance, but, after a few hours cooling his heels in the cargo bay, he’s not so determined to kill all of Reyes’ men. He can be satisfied with maiming them, and in any case getting sucked out of an airplane is a fucking horrible way to die.

“Hold on!” he shouts at the soldier, but he’s no sooner said it than his shirt tears under the other man’s hold, and he’s swept right out of the plane.

Grant has bigger problems at the moment, though. Left off balance from the sudden departure of the soldier, he loses his grip on the column and gets pulled towards the hole. He can hear Jemma screaming his name as he scrambles for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing.

He doesn’t have time to think of anything, to ponder his regrets, or even see his life flash before his eyes. One minute he’s sure that he’s about to be sucked out of the plane, and the next he slams into something and bounces off. At the same time, the sound of the howling wind is abruptly decreased.

On the floor, he looks up to see that one of the inflatable life rafts is covering the hole in the side of the plane. He has no idea how the hell it works, but he’s incredibly grateful it does. He watches as Coulson knocks out the last of Reyes’ soldiers and slumps back against the raft.

He’s still trying to steady his breathing when Skye stumbles over and offers him a hand up. He accepts it and, once he’s standing, gives her an expectant look.

“I read the safety pamphlet,” she tells him smugly.

“You might be the first,” he says as he turns to look for Jemma. Before he has the chance, though, she slams into him, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

“You—you almost—” she stammers. “I _saw_ you, you were going to be—I thought I told you not to get sucked out of the plane!”

“Sorry,” he says, returning her hug. It’s not that he minds it—God knows he could use a hug after nearly getting pulled to certain death—and it’s always nice to be touching her, but he’s a little concerned. She’s clutching on to him desperately, and he thinks she might be crying. “Hey. Jemma. I’m fine. Are you okay?”

Jemma nods into his chest and tightens her grip on him. She’s shaking like crazy, but that’s really to be expected, considering what just happened. He rubs his hand across her back, hoping to calm her down a little, and looks at Fitz, who is holding tightly to the other column.

“You okay?” he asks.

Fitz nods unconvincingly, but he doesn’t look hurt, just like he’s going to be sick, so Grant looks to Skye.

“I’m fine,” she tells him before he can ask.

Coulson looks mostly unharmed. He’s clearly been beaten, but he shows full ease of motion as he comes over to the bar, picking up a glass and setting it on the surface.

“No other way in, huh?” he asks. “I was just starting to warm up to this place.”

Bizarrely, Skye picks up a coaster and puts it under the glass. Coulson gives her a smile, then looks around at the rest of them. His eyes linger briefly on Jemma, but he doesn’t say anything, just nods a little to himself.

“The 0-8-4 is cooling and stable,” Fitz eventually says. “But we should call HQ and get it to the Slingshot as soon as possible.”

Coulson turns to face Reyes. “Told you they were good.”

Jemma takes a deep breath and finally pulls away from Grant. He resists the urge to draw her back.

“Sorry,” she says. “That was—that was quite something, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He looks her over briefly. “You sure you’re not hurt?”

“I’m positive,” she says, then gives him a worried look. “You, however, _are_.”

He follows her gaze to the blood on his shirt and pauses, not sure how to tell her it’s hours old.

“Oh, he got that at the site,” Skye pipes up. When Jemma turns to look at her, the hacker nods. “Yeah, he got shot protecting us.”

“Grant!” Jemma exclaims, whirling to face him. “You said you hadn’t been injured!”

“Technically,” he says as she pulls up the hem of his shirt and ‘tsk’s at the blood-soaked gauze he’d taped over the graze, “You asked if I hurt myself diving down those stairs. You didn’t ask if I’d been shot.”

Jemma gives him a distinctly unimpressed look.

“I am not going to list every possible injury you could conceivably sustain _every time_ we return from the field,” she tells him sternly. “So in the future, when I ask if you’ve been injured, please answer honestly. I can’t take care of you if you won’t let me.”

He nods silently, not trusting his voice. No one in his life has _ever_ showed so much concern over him. Not Garrett, not any agents he’s been partnered with in the past, hell, even Ashton never says anything when Grant shows up on his doorstep beat all to hell. He just accepts it as part of the job. And here’s Jemma, who hasn’t even known him a week, looking like she honestly might cry over a simple graze.

Her staunch loyalty to SHIELD is inconvenient, sure, and he really wishes she didn’t come as part of a set—although Fitz is definitely growing on him—but looking down at Jemma, Grant realizes there’s absolutely no one else he could, or would, ever want for his soulmate.

\---

A few hours later, when they’ve safely arrived at the Slingshot, Grant finds himself sitting on the edge of the cargo bay door, his arm around Jemma’s shoulders and a beer in his free hand. His graze has been more securely bandaged, courtesy of Jemma, and despite the fact that he’s pretty sure May just tricked him into agreeing to mentor Skye, he’s in a surprisingly good mood.

He’s alive, Jemma is alive, Reyes is in custody, and the goddamn 0-8-4 that caused all of this trouble is about to be launched into outer space. So he doesn’t mind sitting here with his new team and enjoying a few beers.

“It’s an anomaly,” Jemma is saying of their near-death experience. “An irregularity. Not…the norm.”

“Speaking of not the norm,” Coulson says. “Whose idea was it to blow a hole in the plane?”

There’s a moment of guilty silence, and then Skye speaks.

“May said that the doors were tied to the pressurization, so I thought—”

“So _we_ thought,” Jemma interrupts her. “It was the only way to release them.”

Grant tightens his hold on her for a moment, seeing how nervous she looks, then turns to Coulson. “It was everyone’s idea, sir.”

“Yeah, it’s quite genius, really,” Fitz contributes.

Coulson looks them over. “Nice work,” he says.

An announcement comes across the base’s loudspeakers that everything is clear for liftoff.

“Oh! Time for blastoff,” Fitz says, then pinches his nose. “Launching in three, two…”

Grant smiles when he hears Jemma laugh.

“The trajectory will take it beyond the Lagrange point so it doesn’t hit Herschel,” Fitz tells him like that’s supposed to mean something.

“And there haven’t been _any_ coronal mass ejections, so it shouldn’t lose telemetry,” Jemma adds.

Grant honestly can’t resist the opening. “Guys. English.”

Jemma laughs a little and leans on him as they all watch the rocket blast off. He has to admit it’s a pretty impressive sight. He also has to admit that the team worked pretty well together today. It’s possible this assignment won’t be such a disaster, after all. But he’s not going to hold his breath.


	3. The Asset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Jemma's former professors has been kidnapped by invisible attackers. The rescue plan depends entirely on Skye. Grant is, as usual, not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks so much for all of the comments and kudos! I'm honestly just blown away by the massive response this story has received. I'm glad most of you expressed the opinion that the longer, the better, because this chapter is just as long as the last one. 
> 
> Second, I have never been to Malta, and while I've visited Colorado, I had never even heard of Barnroof Point until I watched this episode. Any mistakes in the geography of either location is entirely my bad--I'm working off of Google, here. Other things I know nothing about: firearm maintenance, scientific explanations for invisibility, and what on earth the writers were smoking when they laid out the timeline for this episode. Seriously, it's like they just flip a coin to decide whether it should be day or night during any given scene. But enough about that.
> 
> I keep forgetting to mention, the title comes from Skillet's Sometimes. Also, this chapter contains **brief mentions of child abuse** , so be wary. Anyways, thanks for reading, and as always, please be gentle if you review!

Once the Bus is fully repaired (without a fish tank, much to Jemma’s disappointment), things settle into a comfortable routine. Grant’s taken the position of Skye’s SO, something he’s fairly ambivalent about. On the one hand, Skye’s obviously here to stay, which means he needs her trust, and taking on a mentoring role is a good way to gain it. On the other hand, he’s still not sure that they can trust _her_ —she is, after all, a member of the Rising Tide.

He’s managed to schedule Skye’s training around his own, so that he has time for his morning and evening workouts before he has to guide her (or rather, drag her) through hers. It would be easier if she was a little more enthusiastic about it, but it’s only been two weeks. At least she’s finally gotten the hang of doing push-ups on her feet instead of her knees, even if she whines through every second of them.

Jemma is a much more welcome addition to his routine. Despite her claims of being a night owl, she’s in the cargo bay with him every morning, sitting on the bottom steps and drinking tea while he trains. It’s the only time of day they can guarantee they won’t be interrupted—there are really no private areas on the Bus, aside from the bunks, and Grant can barely fit in one by himself—and they take full advantage of it.

So she sits on the steps and they play twenty questions every morning while he works out, then she goes upstairs to shower and eat as he puts Skye through her paces.

(On the third morning, she tells him about her parents, how going away to university so young left a distance between them that she regrets. She says that she calls them every week and they talk, but they’re still not close. They don’t even know she’s taken a position on a field team—she told them she’s gotten a transfer, but they think it’s just to another lab.

In return, he tells her about Ashton, about Ashton’s soulmate, Claudia, how they’ve been married for three years and are talking about having a baby, how he doesn’t talk to them often but sometimes he goes and stays with them when he’s got mandatory medical leave. When she asks about the rest of his family, all he tells her is that they’re not in contact. She doesn’t push.)

Evening training is different, of course. Jemma’s always hard at work in the lab with Fitz, so there’s no time or privacy to talk, but he still finds he likes it. It’s soothing, almost, having her right there in his peripheral vision while he does his evening regimen and drags Skye through hers. It certainly helps him keep his temper as Skye complains every step of the way.

Which is exactly what she’s doing, one evening two weeks after the disaster in Peru.

“Why do I even have to do this?” she asks between half-hearted hits at the punching bag. “I’m _sure_ FitzSimmons’ supervising officer didn’t make them do this… _muscle_ stuff.” She devolves to hitting the bag with the backs of her hands, and he shakes his head.

“Said you wanted to be a field agent, like Coulson,” he reminds her. (Those were her exact words, actually: “I wanna be a field agent. But like, a Coulson-like field agent, not a _you_ field agent.” He might have been insulted, if he weren’t so relieved. It’s hard enough pushing her along the current training plan—he honestly might have shot her by now if he had to try and bully her through specialist training.) “But, if you’d like to switch disciplines…”

He turns to face the lab and calls, “Hey, Jemma!” She pulls away from her laptop and looks at him expectantly. “What did your SO give you guys for morning drills?”

He actually already knows the answer to his question—they’ve spent plenty of time talking about their respective Academy experiences—and he knows Skye will be as confused by it as he was.

“Oh, atomistic attribute drills,” she says cheerfully, looking to Fitz. “Yeah, we’d name the mechanical, chemical, thermal—”

“Electrical properties of materials,” Fitz continues.

“Okay, okay,” Skye grouses. “They made your point.”

“Thank you,” he says to Jemma and Fitz, who trade confused looks and then turn back to their work. He circles back around to hold the bag still as Skye goes back to punching it with, if not more enthusiasm, at least a little more effort. “There will come a moment when you have to commit to this, or bail. Every SHIELD agent has a defining moment—ask Coulson—when you have to make the hard call: to either dedicate yourself to this, or to curl up in a ball and run.”

Skye stops punching to ask him, “How can you run if you’re curled up in a ball?”

He ignores her (admittedly fair) question and continues, “It’s my job, as your SO, to make sure you _don’t die_ before then.” He pushes on her wrists to get her hands up, then slaps the bag. “C’mon.”

“So what was yours, Agent Ward?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Your defining moment? Come on, tell me! I wanna know.” When he just looks at her, not answering, she suggests, “I could get Coulson to give me some of that truth serum. You could spill your little heart out to me again.”

He’s spent the last two weeks working with Skye, and he’s still getting nowhere. It’s been an annoying and, quite literally, thankless task. He deserves a reward, and the look on her face when he spills _this_ will do very nicely, he thinks.

So he feels absolutely no guilt at all when he leans against the bag and asks, “You mean my… _level one_ overshare that miraculously got you to cooperate? I hate to tell you this, rookie, but. We don’t _have_ a truth serum.”

The look on her face is, as expected, immensely gratifying. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to enjoy it for long before the intercom dings and May says, “Changing course. Briefing in three.”

Three minutes isn’t much time, but he’d at least like to change into a less sweaty shirt, so he heads up the stairs without delay. As he does so, May announces that their destination is Colorado. He wonders at that—they’re all the way on the other side of the Atlantic, having just left Lisbon, and even if May pushes, it’s at least a nine hour flight. Surely there’s a SHIELD team closer to Colorado that could take care of whatever the problem is?

When he gets back to the lounge, Fitz and Jemma are already there, sitting on the couch and looking eager. Apparently the last field mission nearly ending with them getting dumped out of the airlock didn’t dent their enthusiasm any. He sighs and takes a seat on the arm of the couch, next to Jemma, while Skye claims a recliner.

“A few minutes ago, a SHIELD transport was attacked while carrying a priority red protected asset off route 76 near Sterling,” Coulson says as he enters the lounge.

“Priority red?” Jemma echoes. He really wishes she didn’t sound so enthusiastic.

“The asset was Canadian physicist Franklin Hall,” Coulson begins, “Known for his work in—”

“Oh, no, not Frank!” Jemma exclaims, interrupting him. She and Fitz sit up.

“He was our chemical kinetics advisor our second year,” Fitz says.

“Yeah, he’s so enthusiastic about science, we just _adored_ him,” Jemma continues sadly. She leans to the side a little, pressing her arm against Grant’s thigh, and he discretely puts his hand on her upper back. “We can rescue him, can’t we?”

Well, at least that solves the mystery of why they’ve been called in to investigate over a closer team. Jemma and Fitz’s personal connection may prove useful.

“He’s one of ours,” Coulson tells her. “We’re gonna try.”

“And the attackers?” Grant asks.

“Invisible,” Coulson says. Then, apparently done with the briefing, he walks away.

“Wait,” Skye says, excited. “ _In_ visible? Ha, _so cool_.” He gives her a dirty look and she sobers. “But terrible.”

“Go rewrap your hands,” he orders.

“What? But we have a mission!” Skye protests indignantly.

“We’re still nine hours from Colorado, and I said ten minutes. You’ve only done one. Go rewrap your hands.”

Skye stomps off, grumbling to herself, and Grant looks down at Jemma.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Oh, yes, I’m fine,” she says, but she looks worried. “I do hope that Frank is all right, though. He’s such a lovely man, not to mention a truly brilliant scientist.”

Grant rubs his hand across her upper back. He’d love to be able to promise that they’ll find Hall, rescue him before he’s harmed, but the fact is, they might not. That briefing was worryingly short, not even thirty seconds, which means they don’t have any information. It’s not a good sign. And that’s not even taking into account that the attackers were apparently invisible.

“We’ll do our best for him,” he promises instead. He looks between Jemma, who’s fully leaning her weight against him now, and Fitz, who’s holding on to a throw pillow so tight it’ll tear any moment. Looks like a diversion is in order. “So. Invisible attackers. What could’ve caused that?”

As expected, this thoroughly distracts the two scientists, and they immediately start listing possible ways the attackers could’ve made themselves invisible. Grant can barely make out any individual words, the way the two of them are talking over each other, but they seem to do fine—at one point, Jemma says something that Fitz disagrees with, and it devolves to an argument. He thinks. It’s kind of hard to tell.

He sits there and watches them argue until Skye comes back to the lounge and presents her rewrapped hands for inspection. She’s getting better at it—he only needs to make a few adjustments, rather than rewrapping them entirely like he had to do for the first week.

“Let’s go,” he says, standing. “Ten minutes.”

He glances down at Jemma, who’s currently arguing the merits of temperature gradients with Fitz, and shakes his head. He’s pretty sure she won’t even notice he’s gone. There’s nothing as single-minded as a SHIELD scientist with a mystery to solve.

\---

By the time they reach the highway where the kidnapping took place, the question of invisibility is no longer a sufficient distraction for Jemma and Fitz. They stopped discussing possible causes somewhere over Florida and have been looking increasingly anxious ever since, so Grant sticks close to them as the team approaches the scene.

“Dr. Hall was an _asset_?” Skye asks.

“One of a few select scientists SHIELD has been protecting,” Coulson tells her. “People our enemies would love to get their hands on. We keep them hidden, keep them on the move.”

“Which is why Fitz and I were so lucky to have him,” Jemma interjects, sounding distressed. Grant subtly adjusts his path so he’s walking even closer to her, and she gives him a little smile. With the street so dark, he can see the slight green glow coming from her timer, and just the sight of it fills him with warmth.

“We don’t have him anymore,” Coulson responds.

“And what does priority red mean?” Skye presses.

“It means security should have been…” Coulson trails off as they all come to a stop, staring up at the SUV stuck in the high branches of a tree. “Heavy.”

When they reach the scene, Coulson and May split off to talk to the driver while Grant takes Jemma, Fitz, and Skye to the destroyed semi. Jemma and Fitz stop in their tracks when they see it, and immediately turn to interrogate the agents on scene.

Grant detours around the back of the semi to capture the tread pattern in the grass. The agents on scene will already have gotten it, but he prefers to have his own records to work with. When he returns to the semi, he finds Skye kicking through the boxes on the ground, looking bored out of her mind. Unfortunately, there’s really not much they can do here, other than stay alert in case the attackers come back—which is highly unlikely.

Jemma and Fitz have finished interrogating the agents on scene, and after a brief round of rock-paper-scissors, which Jemma wins, they split up—Jemma heading towards the back of the semi while Fitz lingers near the cab. Grant motions for Skye to stay with Fitz and then follows Jemma.

Once she’s past the semi, she kneels down to open one of the cases she’s carrying and pulls out a pair of bright green glasses and what looks like some sort of meter.

“I’ll need you to stand back, please, Grant,” she says, and he obligingly takes a few steps backwards.

She pulls the pen off the side of the meter and begins to wave it around, and Grant has to work hard to keep from smiling. In the neon green glasses, waving around a little pen, with a completely serious expression…she’s adorable. He can’t even deny it to _himself_ anymore. She’s honestly the most adorable person he’s ever met. (She’s also the sexiest, kindest, most brilliant…but he doesn’t really have time to stand around and ponder everything that makes Jemma superior to everyone else.)

After about five minutes of Jemma taking slow, tiny steps and waving the pen everywhere, the meter begins to let out a strange buzzing sound.

“Fitz, what am I seeing here?” she calls over her shoulder.

Fitz turns away from the semi. “Well,” he says, sounding aggrieved. “ _I’m_ not wearing the full-spectrum goggles I designed, so…no clue.”

Seeing that Fitz and Skye are approaching and assuming that means he no longer needs to hang back, Grant moves a little closer to Jemma. At the same time, Fitz extends a hand. “Let me have a look, come on.”

“No, whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait! Don't move,” Jemma orders, crouching to pick up some gravel. “Wait a second.”

She tosses the gravel forward, and instead of scattering back to the ground, it stays in the air, whirling around in a sort of mini-tornado. Grant stares.

“What the hell?” Skye asks quietly.

“I think the electro-static field scanner activated some… _thing_ ,” Jemma says, plainly fascinated. The tornado fluctuates a little, sending gravel pinging everywhere, and Grant tugs Jemma a step back.

“Okay,” Coulson says. “Can we deactivate it? _Now_?”

“Have to increase the density,” Fitz mutters at Jemma.

She snaps back, “I _tried_ , Fitz, but it’s—” she breaks off as Fitz takes the scanner right out of her hands and begins pressing buttons.

“Fitz,” May says, annoyed, as they’re pelted with more gravel.

The scanner sparks and the gravel suddenly falls to the ground, the tornado disappearing like it was never there. Jemma seems to spot something and crouches back down, reaching out with a pair of tweezers and picking up a tiny metal…thing.

“That did all this,” she says, wonderingly. Coulson takes the device off the end of the tweezers and holds it up.

“What is that?” Skye asks.

“Something big,” Coulson answers, his eyes fixed on the device. Then he turns and walks away, May on his heels.

Skye stares after him, nonplussed. “Is he going to do that a lot?”

“Do what?” Grant asks, “Make vague declarations and then walk away?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then, yeah. Probably,” he tells her. He turns to Jemma. “Do you have everything you need?”

Jemma looks at Fitz. “Did you get the—”

“Yeah. Have you got—”

“Mm, it’s in the bag, but I don’t really think—”

“No, probably not, but still—”

“Guys!” Skye interrupts. “Please just answer the question. Or at _least_ finish a sentence.”

Jemma and Fitz exchange a long look, then turn as one to face Grant.

“We’re done,” they say together.

“We can leave now,” Jemma continues.

“Nothing more to do here,” Fitz says over her.

Grant shakes his head and sweeps a hand in the direction of the SUV. Sometimes it’s really obvious why everyone at SHIELD knows these two by one name.

When they get back to the Bus, he heads up to the briefing room while the rest of the team gathers in the lab. It’s the work of only a few moments to run the tractor tread against the SHIELD database, find that it’s a specific 2010 model, and then run a search for purchases within a 500-mile radius. He filters those results by those likely to associate with criminals—people with priors, financial troubles, or a propensity for risk-taking—and gets three names.

“Big brother’s always watching,” he says to their photos as he scans through the information SHIELD has on the three men. There’s a lot of it, considering none of them are prospects for recruitment and only one of them rates higher than ‘stray Lego’ on the threat scale. He heads down to the lab and enters just in time to hear Skye to offer to check the tread pattern.

“Already done,” he tells her. He summarizes the information for the team as he pulls up the profiles on the three suspects on the big screen. “Three suspects.”

“Who may have sold their construction equipment to the kidnappers,” Coulson supplies—for Skye’s benefit, since Grant already knows and Jemma and Fitz are focused on the device they found at the scene. “We’ll ask.”

Grant nods and leaves the lab, heading back to the briefing room. Using GPS from their respective cell phones, he finds that two of the suspects are at home, presumably asleep, and the third, Todd Chesterfield, is off the grid entirely.

It takes nearly an hour, but he manages to use the record from Chesterfield’s GPS to approximate a last known location, then use satellite imagery to track him to a secluded cabin in Barnroof Point.

“Narrow down the suspect list yet?” Coulson asks from the doorway.

“Well, if I had to guess,” Grant says, putting Chesterfield’s location on the screen. “I’d go with the one who’s hiding in the middle of nowhere over the ones safely asleep in their beds.”

“Good guess,” Coulson says. He checks his watch. “How far is Barnroof Point?”

Grant inputs it into the system. “Eight hours by highway. The nearest airport—Durango-La Plata—is forty minutes away.”

Coulson taps his fingers against the doorframe. “All right. With Dr. Hall’s life on the line, we can’t afford to wait. I’ll alert May. Be ready to go as soon as we land.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sets the computer to record a copy of the satellite feed, just in case Chesterfield decides to switch hiding places in the next two hours. Glancing at his own watch, he considers forcing Jemma and Fitz to go to bed—neither one of them slept a wink on the flight from Lisbon—but he knows it’ll be a waste of time. They won’t want to leave the lab until they’ve figured out the device that was used to lift the semi, and even then, they’ll probably be too worried over Hall to get any rest.

He rolls his eyes at himself. Now even _he’s_ thinking of the two of them as one unit. He’s obviously in need of rest himself, and he won’t have much to do until they touch down at Durango-La Plata, so he heads to his bunk to take a quick power nap.

\---

Two and a half hours later, Grant settles himself behind some trees just off the trail to Chesterfield’s cabin. It doesn’t afford much cover, and he’s not exactly dressed for hiding in foliage, but Chesterfield’s likely to be distracted by Coulson and Lola.

Grant listens to Coulson and Chesterfield’s conversation with one ear, but keeps most of his attention on Chesterfield’s movements. A shotgun like that can do a lot of damage at close range, and while Coulson can certainly handle himself, the objective here is to _not_ kill Chesterfield—or at least not until they find out everything they can about who he sold his excavator to.

Chesterfield pulls his shotgun out, but he doesn’t even have time to finish his threatening sentence before Grant’s there, pulling it out of his hands and using the force to throw Chesterfield to the ground. Off of his _horse_. Add in the fact that he’s wearing a cowboy hat and Grant’s aiming a shotgun at him, and there’s only one thing Grant’s thinking.

“Feels like the Old West,” he says to Coulson, earning a smile.

“They gave me money for my equipment. That’s all,” Chesterfield says. “I never saw a face, I never heard a name.”

“And how did you receive this money?” Coulson asks. “They write you a check?”

Chesterfield points to his saddlebag—seriously, a _saddlebag_ , John Wayne’s gonna come out from behind a tree any second—and Grant keeps the shotgun aimed at him with one hand as he pulls at the saddlebag with the other. It’s heavier than he expected, and the bag falls open, dropping _actual gold bars_ to the ground. Grant stares at Coulson crouches to pick one up.

“He paid you in gold?” Coulson asks, incredulous.

“Now it really feels like the Old West,” Grant says disbelievingly. Coulson gives a little nod, obviously still stunned.

\---

When they get back to the Bus, Grant takes the gold—actual _gold bars_ , what the fuck, between that and the invisible attackers this is already in the top ten weirdest cases he’s ever had, and if any aliens show up he’s taking Jemma and bailing—straight to the lab.

“Got a present for you,” he says to Jemma. She’s looking pale, and he makes a mental note to drag her to bed at the soonest opportunity, whether they learn anything from the gold or not. (Then he has to bite the inside of his cheek to push away mental images of other situations in which he could drag her to bed.)

“Oooh, what sort of present?” she asks happily. “Is it evidence?”

“Yep,” he says, upending the bag and letting the gold bars clatter on to one of the lab tables. “Very expensive evidence, which a cowboy received in exchange for his excavator.”

Jemma stares at the gold for a full three seconds, then looks at Fitz.

“Will you—” she begins.

“Check for distinctive impurities, right,” Fitz interrupts. He takes one of the gold bars to a scanner across the room, while Jemma begins organizing the rest of them into two neat rows. Once they’re laid out to her satisfaction, she turns to Grant.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch me the…” she trails off, apparently reconsidering, and then points at a cabinet below the counter. “There’s a silver case with a blue label in there. Would you bring it to me, please?”

Grant, amused to see that his constant requests for simple English are finally being met, crosses to the counter without saying anything. There are six silver cases in the cabinet, but only one of them has a blue label, and he pulls it out and brings it back to Jemma.

“Thank you,” she says distractedly, opening the case. She pulls out a scanner of some kind, then looks over at Fitz.

“Got it,” he says, and brings back the gold bar he’d taken. “Are they all—”

“Checking,” Jemma tells him in a little sing-song tone as she adds the last bar to the top row. Grant eyes her, a little concerned. She _sounds_ cheerful enough, but she doesn’t look nearly as enthusiastic as usual. He’s definitely forcing her to get some sleep as soon as they’re done here.

She begins scanning the gold bars, keeping her eyes on the readout the whole time.

“Yes,” she says to Fitz once she’s finished with the top row.

“Why do they look like that?” Grant can’t help asking. He’s honestly curious. He’s never seen gold bars in person, of course, but he would’ve expected something a little more…uniform.

Coulson enters the lab as Jemma begins scanning the second row.

“It looks like this because it’s a doré bar,” she tells them. Seeing their blank looks, she explains, “It means it was made at the mine rather than in a refinery. It's only about 92% pure. The _cowboy_ got cheated a bit.”

“Can you determine the mine based on the impurities?” Coulson asks.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,” Fitz says, taking a seat in front of one of the lab computers, “We've done that already. It's from the…Dacey mine in Tanzania, which is owned by—”

“Quinn Worldwide,” Coulson interrupts. “I’m sure you studied the CEO in your chemical engineering classes, or saw him on the cover of Forbes. Ian Quinn.”

Grant shakes his head as Coulson leaves the lab. Even _he’s_ heard of Ian Quinn. If Quinn’s behind Hall’s kidnapping, this just became exponentially harder.

“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands. “Time for all the good little scientists to go to bed.”

“What?” Jemma and Fitz ask together.

“No,” Fitz says. “No, we’re not _children_ , you can’t just _send us to bed_ —”

“Grant, we haven’t finished with the device we found at the scene, we’ve still _hours_ of work to do—”

“Dr. Hall’s life is at stake, we’re not gonna be bloody _napping_ while he could be—”

“And just because you’re my soulmate, it doesn’t _mean_ you can just—”

“Guys! Guys,” he says, raising his voice to be heard. “It’s three in the afternoon in Lisbon, and you two haven’t slept at all. You’re not gonna do Dr. Hall much good if you’re passing out from _exhaustion_.”

“We’ve stayed awake for longer than this,” Jemma says at once.

“Yeah, you should’ve seen us during finals week,” Fitz agrees.

“No one’s life was on the line during finals week,” Grant points out, but he has a feeling he’s not gonna win this one. Time for a compromise. “Okay, fine. I’ll give you three hours, and then you’re going to bed, even if I have to drug you.”

Jemma and Fitz exchange looks, maybe considering protesting further, and then nod.

“Fine,” Fitz says.

“Sounds fair,” Jemma agrees. Then she comes around the table and goes up on her toes to kiss Grant’s cheek. Even on her toes, he still has to bend down a little so she can reach him. “Thank you for being concerned.”

“ _Jemma_ ,” Fitz whines.

“What?” she asks, crossing her arms. “It’s very sweet of him to worry about us.”

“But did you have to do _that_? In the _lab_ , of all places!”

“I kissed him on the _cheek_ , Fitz, there’s nothing inappropriate—”

“Three hours,” he reminds them loudly, but he’s pretty sure they don’t hear him. He rolls his eyes and leaves the lab, heading upstairs. Regardless of whether they’re ready for it or not, he’s dragging them out of there in three hours. In the meantime, he’ll draw up a plan to rescue Hall from Quinn. SHIELD is sure to have the specs on the man’s various properties—Quinn has been on the watch list for years.

(And sometime soon, he swears to himself, he’s going to give Jemma a _real_ kiss.)

\---

It’s only been two hours when he’s called to the briefing room. Apparently Jemma and Fitz have found something, and he’s hoping that means they’ll be willing to go to bed, because it’s really getting ridiculous at this point.

In the briefing room, Jemma and Fitz explain that the device found at the scene is actually something that Hall drew up years ago, a device conceptualized to change the rules of gravity. However, he was never able to actually create it, because it depended on Gravitonium—an element no one was actually sure existed. Except, apparently, Ian Quinn—who happens to be a former classmate of Hall’s—has managed to find it.

“So, we need to rescue Dr. Hall, and _before_ he can be made to do anything with the Gravitonium,” Coulson summarizes.

“That’s…gonna be a problem, sir,” Grant tells him.

“What’s the problem?” Coulson asks. “The man’s a prisoner, and it’s up to us to get him out.”

Grant pulls up the specs on security at Quinn’s Malta property. It’s the most likely place for the man to keep Hall, since Malta has always refused to cooperate with SHIELD.

“We’ve checked the specs,” he says. “There’s no way in to Quinn’s compound without a large SHIELD strike force. _Or_ a man inside. He’s got _neodymium laser fencing_ surrounding the property.”

“They’ll never allow a strike force into Malta,” Coulson says, outlining the exact problem Grant was _just_ talking about. “Plus, this weekend, Quinn Worldwide’s got its annual shareholders gathering. We’d risk global outrage. But…”

“If we go in alone,” May supplies.

“SHIELD can disavow us,” Coulson continues, “Claiming ignorance.”

“Without a man inside, it’s impossible,” May points out, “Unless you’re immune to pulse-laser emissions.”

“If we had a monkey, we could get in,” Fitz says.

“Oh, Fitz,” Jemma groans, exasperated. Grant’s guessing this isn’t the first time Fitz has suggested a monkey.

“If we had a small monkey, he could slip through the sensors and disable the fence’s power source with his adorable little hands,” Fitz insists, apparently in all seriousness.

“Drop me in the hills outside of Valletta,” Grant suggests. It’s not a great plan, since it’ll leave Hall in the hands of Quinn for several weeks, but it’s pretty much all they’ve got. “I’ll spend a few weeks establishing a cover, gathering intel—”

“Hall doesn’t have a few weeks,” Coulson interrupts.

“And to restate,” Jemma says, a little angrily, “Any agent of SHIELD caught on Maltese soil can be shot to death. With bullets. _Legally_.”

“Yeah,” Fitz nods.

“Not me,” Skye interjects. They all turn to face her. “I could go in.”

“Skye,” Grant says, annoyed. “This is serious.”

“Wait,” Coulson says. “What are you saying?”

“Well, I’m not an agent of SHIELD, so I can go in without breaking all these stupid rules.”

“International laws,” Jemma puts in.

“This isn’t something the Rising Tide can hack, Skye,” Grant tells her.

“Did you hear the deadly lasers part? Without a brave monkey—” Fitz begins.

“You said you could go in with a man inside,” Skye argues.

“And you wanna be that man?” May asks doubtfully.

“FitzSimmons loved the guy, and he needs help,” Skye says, still tapping away at her phone. “They could be _torturing_ him, or worse, making him do strength-training.”

Grant rolls his eyes.

“But you don't have the background or clearance or experience with _any_ of this,” he tells her.

“I know,” Skye says as her phone beeps. She holds it up. “But I’ve got an invitation.”

They all stare at her.

“Well, technically it’s an e-vite,” she amends.

“Okay,” Coulson says after a moment. “May, set a course for Malta. Ward, work up a plan with FitzSimmons. Skye’s going in.”

Grant would really like to argue, but looking at the relieved expression on Jemma’s face, he can’t bear to. Not in front of her, at least. He’ll wait until he can get Coulson alone.

“Yes, sir,” he says instead, as May leaves for the cockpit. He turns to look at Jemma and Fitz. “Alright, you two, we’ve got an hour to work up a plan. What have you got for me?”

“An hour?” Jemma asks, confused.

“Yeah, and then you’re going to bed,” he tells them. “You won’t be any help rescuing Dr. Hall if you haven’t slept in two days.”

Fitz starts to argue, but Jemma shakes her head at him. After what looks like a brief argument of facial expressions, Fitz rolls his eyes and nods.

“Fine. The first thing we’ve got to do is take care of the deadly fence,” he says. “In absence of a monkey, Skye will need to do that for us.”

“Or make it possible for us to do it from the Bus,” Jemma continues.

“Let’s go with the second option,” Grant suggests. He’d like to believe that Skye’s really offering to help out of the goodness of her heart, but he hasn’t survived this long by being trusting.

\---

An hour later, they’ve got a workable plan. It requires some equipment that Jemma and Fitz will have to build, but when pressed, they admit that it will only take about twenty minutes, and they’ll certainly have time to do it in the morning, before the gala. So he sends them to bed.

He’s not planning on staying up much longer himself—they’ll be arriving in Malta at four a.m., local time, and the best way to fight the jet lag is sleep through the flight. He’s not going to skip his evening workout, although he tells Skye she can, and he needs to talk to Coulson, but then he’ll be going to bed.

After his workout, he finds Coulson rifling through the closet outside his office.

“Sir,” he says. “I’m not sure about sending Skye in.”

“I understand your concern,” Coulson says. He’s flipping through his suits as he speaks. “But we don’t have a lot of options.”

“Hey, I’m impressed,” Grant admits. “She just wrangled an invitation on her phone using insider back-channel voodoo, in _minutes_. But sending her in with no training, you're taking a huge risk.”

Coulson pulls a suit out of the closet and heads into his office.

“I know Director Fury felt he owed you after you sacrificed yourself,” Grant continues, following him.

“And my card collection,” Coulson mutters.

“He gave you _some_ autonomy, but Skye on a covert op?” Grant presses.

“Are you worried about her safety, or her loyalty?” Coulson asks.

“Both,” he replies. “The Rising Tide is the _reason_ she got an invite. Who knows how many protocols she violated?”

“That’s her job,” Coulson interrupts. “Ignore protocol, find connections and back doors that nobody else can see. Something else is bothering you.”

Grant turns away and sighs.

“She’s holding back, sir,” he says. “She says she wants to be an agent, but she won’t commit. She doesn’t listen, makes jokes…”

“Were you hard on her?” Coulson asks.

“Sure. I tried playing nice, too. I need a new strategy.”

“Try no strategy,” Coulson suggests. “Stop thinking like an operative, start thinking like a person. Maybe Skye will let that _person_ help her.”

“Help her what?”

“Help her think like an operative,” Coulson says. It’s a clear dismissal, so Grant excuses himself and heads downstairs for his bunk. He needs to consider Coulson’s suggestion. Skye _did_ ask about his motivation, his defining moment, but he’s had no intention of telling her. It might be the only way to get through to her, though.

He shakes his head as he slides the door to his bunk closed. He’ll think about it tomorrow.

\---

The next morning, he’s intending to ask Jemma about Hall, give her the chance to vent a little and gain control of her emotions before they have to set to work saving the man’s life.

So he’s as surprised as she is when the words, “Ashton isn’t my only brother,” burst out of him as soon as she comes down the stairs.

Her brow scrunches a little in confusion, but all she says is, “No?”

It’s not that he spent all night thinking of what Coulson said about motivating Skye, because he honestly didn’t. But it strikes him as wrong, somehow, that Jemma doesn’t know. And Coulson’s right—nothing he’s tried so far has worked on Skye, so he’s going to have humanize himself to her, and it would be wrong to tell her before he told Jemma. So.

“We have an older brother,” Grant tells her. He gets to work on his push-ups. Strangely enough, he kind of wants tell her this, or at least a part of him does, but it’ll be easier if he’s not looking at her. “Maynard. He’s…messed up.”

“How so?” she asks quietly.

“Violent,” he says. “He used to beat the crap out of us for no reason. Our parents didn’t do anything. Hell, he picked it up from our dad—he was always beating on mom, but Maynard didn’t have a soulmate handy, so he made do with us.”

He can hear Jemma take a deep breath, but she doesn’t say anything. He’s glad.

“It took me a long time to learn to stand up to him,” he continues. “I let him…for a long time, I just let him hurt me. Hurt Ashton. It took Ashton nearly dying for me to start protecting us.”

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from continuing. That’s already more than he was intending to say—there’s no way he can tell her about how he had hurt Ashton on Maynard’s orders. He can’t let her know that, not if he wants her to think well of him. Jemma Simmons, so firm in her moral convictions, her determination to do what’s right, would never understand.

So instead, he begins telling her about Garrett. It’s on record with SHIELD that Garrett was the one who convinced him to join up, so there’s no harm in telling her about it. Of course, he leaves out all details relating to HYDRA, being broken out of juvie, and years alone in the woods, but, still. That leaves a lot.

He tells her about how Garrett is like a father to him, how Garrett taught him to use his anger, to collar that desire to protect people and redirect it towards being the best specialist possible. He tells her how hard he worked at the Academy, determined to make Garrett proud of him, and how happy he was the day Garrett was assigned as his SO.

Jemma doesn’t say anything about his change of subject. She doesn’t say anything at all. She just sits there and listens, and he can feel her eyes on him. He keeps his head down, focuses on keeping count and talking.

Eventually, though, he’s done. Both with his push-ups and with talking about Garrett. He stands up, crosses to the SUV to get his water bottle, and sips at it, all without looking at Jemma. Once he’s sufficiently hydrated, he pulls on his gloves and approaches the punching bag. Jemma still hasn’t said anything, and he’s a little torn on whether that’s a good thing or not. One the one hand, he hates the silence. They’ve shared comfortable silences, some mornings, but there’s nothing comfortable about this. It feels heavy and awkward. On the other hand, there’s really nothing Jemma can say to make things better—his childhood was horrible, and that’s that. There’s a reason he never thinks of it anymore.

Jemma clears her throat. “I know you don’t like it,” she says, and he turns to look at her, nonplussed. “The…FitzSimmons thing? Whenever anyone calls us that, you make a little face. So I know you don’t like it. But I’ve never told you how it started, have I?”

“No,” he agrees. He turns back to the punching bag to hide his expression from her, because he has no idea what his face is doing right now. He’s so grateful, so unspeakably thankful, for her subject change. It’s how they always talk in the morning—sharing things about a particular subject, then moving on. Jemma treating his revelation like it’s normal, like it’s not horrible, makes the knot in his chest ease slightly.

“It was very lonely, you see, being a prodigy,” she tells him as he begins hitting the bag. “I’ve told you how young I was, when I went off to uni, and of course, all of my classmates were so much older that we really had nothing in common besides our studies. So I had my books, and science, and of course that was plenty, but. Well. One does need social interaction, doesn’t one? Or at least I do. And Fitz had the same problems, of course, so when we met at the Academy…”

She trails off, and he can hear her take a sip of her tea.

“It was so lovely, to suddenly have someone my own age who could understand me, who wouldn’t just smile and nod while I talked about my latest experiment. Someone who could _challenge_ me, push me to rethink my ideas, and someone for whom I could do the same. We were rather past the age of friendship bracelets and secret handshakes, and naturally Fitz would have considered them too ‘girly’ in any case, but we wanted…something. A way to acknowledge what it meant, to have each other. The best friend—the _sibling_ —we always wanted.”

He looks over at her, just for a second, and sees her staring thoughtfully at her knees.

“There was an Academy-wide message board, where students would share ideas,” she continues. “We started signing our responses to posts as ‘FitzSimmons’, and it caught on. Very quickly. Soon enough, our classmates were addressing us as such in class, and then our professors picked up on it, and then the training officers came from HQ to assess our suitability for graduation, and they called us FitzSimmons as well. Then we got our first lab posting, and on our first day, when the agent in charge called us FitzSimmons, we realized that it was really going to stick.”

“Does it bother you?” he asks her.

“Oh, no,” she assures him. “Actually, it’s rather nice. It’s as if everyone we meet immediately acknowledges what we mean to one another. Of course, that’s not what they’re doing—usually they just can’t be bothered to remember which of us is which—but that’s what we treat it as. I’m very sorry it bothers you, though.”

He stops hitting the bag, grabs it to stop it from swinging, and turns to face  her. Before he can decide what to say, though, he hears the sound of feet on the stairs.

“Okay, I’m here,” Skye says. “On time, might I add. No need for extra push-ups!”

Jemma stands to let Skye pass, then smiles at both of them.

“I’ll go get started on breakfast,” she says. “Fitz and I have a lot of work to do before you go in, Skye, so I’ll see you both later.”

She heads upstairs, and Skye stares after her.

“Did I interrupt something? Because it looks like I interrupted something.”

“No,” he lies. “And no push-ups today. One extra morning of relative strength training isn’t going to help you. We’re going to work on some things that are more immediately practical.”

He shows her how to take a gun from an opponent that’s aiming it directly at her, walks her through the steps five times and then tells her to do it. And, of course, she proceeds to goof off. She turns it into a joke every single time, making cracks about being a ‘proper Southern lady’ and what Jemma would think if she saw them like this, and Grant just wants to shake her. Does she _not_ realize how much danger she’s going to be in today?

He doesn’t shake her, though. Instead, he decides to give Coulson’s suggestion a try.

“How did you learn computer science without committing yourself to it?” he demands.

“CS comes naturally to me,” Skye says. “I’m sorry I’m not naturally… _whatever_ you are.”

“You think this came naturally?” he asks quietly. “I had a brother who beat the crap outta me—me _and_ my little brother. For nothing. For eating a piece of his birthday cake. I had to _learn_ to protect us. The way I am trying to protect _you_.”

He’s surprised at how easily the words come, like talking to Jemma about it stole all of the pain attached to the memories away. He doesn’t feel the need to hide, the way he did telling Jemma, and part of that is because he doesn’t care as much about Skye’s reaction as he did about Jemma’s, but part of it is the memory of how well she took it.

“That was my moment,” he continues, staring Skye in the face. He can tell she’s uncomfortable. “You asked.”

“Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to push…but I did manage to take this.”

She holds up the plastic gun, and Grant takes it back from her.

“Getting the gun is one thing,” he tells her, backing up. “Pulling the trigger, that is another. Now, again, _slowly_. What’s first?”

She sighs, looking down at the gun, but she does it. Slowly. Again and again. She only cracks three more jokes, and one of them is actually kind of funny—not that he lets on.

Coulson was right. The human approach does work. Who’d have guessed?

\---

A few hours later, they’re holding the final briefing. Grant is only slightly more optimistic—Skye did take the last hour of her training seriously, but, well. It was only an hour, and she’s going in alone, with no back up until they can disable the fence. There are a million ways this can go wrong.

Grant’s used to those kinds of odds, but that doesn’t mean he likes them.

“Skye will walk in the front door,” Coulson’s saying as Grant enters the briefing room. “The only external access point to Quinn's underground facility is from a beach cove. A two-man extraction team could slip in there, but it's not easy. FitzSimmons?”

“The perimeter is surrounded by a 20-foot-high neodymium laser grid. Touch it, and you’re toast,” Fitz says.

“Dead toast,” Coulson clarifies. Grant opens the closet where they store the small arms and begins to dig through it. They won’t be able to bring much, not with the speed they need to keep, but he’s not going in without at least three guns. He’s got his sidearm and his back-up already on him, so he only needs one from the closet. “The only way to disable the grid is to crack the system and trigger a reboot. This would give the team three seconds to cross. Of course, Quinn's too smart to allow any wireless-access on his property.”

“That’s where I come in,” Skye guesses.

“Yes,” Jemma agrees, opening the case on the table. “Working compact, holds up to x-ray—”

“Desert rose, to match your complexion,” Fitz puts in, holding up the compact for inspection. “But oh, what's this? A readout, okay? Turns _green_ if you're in close enough proximity to a computer to gain wireless access.”

“When it does, you just drop this nearby and walk out,” Jemma says cheerfully. “We’ll do the rest. Easy as pie.”

Grant has to admit he’s very much in favor of this part of the plan, which leaves Jemma safely on the plane with Fitz and May. Still, there’s a lot that can go wrong, and the whole thing depends entirely on Skye being trustworthy.

“Or it will be,” he says to Skye. He tries to keep his tone even, but he’s pretty sure he fails. “If you stick to the plan.”

“Got it,” Skye says. “Plan, green, drop, walk. Pie.”

With the plan established, Grant takes one last look into the arms closet. He ignores Coulson and May having a quiet disagreement, as well as Jemma and Skye’s cheerful conversation, as he considers the supply of nonlethal weaponry. He’s got room in his pockets, but after a moment he decides he’d rather bring along an extra clip. Or seven.

“All right, team,” Coulson says. “Suit up.”

Grant’s in his tactical gear in minutes, and he knows Skye will need more time than that (to do “fussy girl things,” she told him earlier) so he takes his guns out to the lounge, along with a cleaning kit. It’s not really necessary, of course—he cleans his sidearm and backup after every mission, regardless of whether he’s used them or not, and he’s the one responsible for upkeep of the weapons in the arms closet, so he knows they’re all in good repair. Still, he’s got time to kill, and he’s always found cleaning guns to be a soothing process. It helps center him before going into the field, and on an op where’s he counting on an untrained hacker to get the job done? He could really use some centering.

He triple checks that his sidearm is unloaded, then field strips it. He’s in the middle of scrubbing the barrel when Jemma comes and sits down next to him. He looks at her, but she doesn’t say anything, so he goes back to cleaning. It’s only after he’s set the reassembled gun down that she speaks.

“You’re very quick at that,” she says.

“At what?” he asks, reaching for the next gun.

“Putting the gun back together. And taking it apart,” she adds, watching him field strip it.

“Can you do this?” he asks her.

“Somewhat,” she says, shaking her head a little. “I understand all of the mechanics of it, of course—Fitz and I have designed a few weapons together, actually—but in practice I’m afraid I’m rather hopeless. I don’t quite seem to have the knack for it.”

He flicks a glance at her. “Now that I don’t believe. You just need the right teacher.”

“The right teacher?” she echoes. “Would that be you?”

“It might be,” he says, not looking up from scrubbing the slide. “If you’re interested.”

“I am,” she confirms. “But I imagine this isn’t the time for it.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’ll have to wait.”

He sets down the gun and turns to face her. “And I’m guessing you didn’t come over here to ask for lessons in firearm maintenance.”

“I didn’t,” she admits. “I just…wanted to tell you to be careful. Last time we went into the field you were shot—and then nearly pulled from the plane. Of course, last time you needed to protect Fitz and I and this time you only need to protect Skye—and Agent Coulson, I suppose, though one assumes he can handle himself—”

“Jemma,” he interrupts, taking her hands. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“And if you’re not?” she asks.

 “Then I’ll actually tell you this time,” he says, trying to get a smile out of her. “Even if I can take care of it myself.”

She does smile, albeit a little tearily.

“Jemma—” he starts again. He really has no idea what to say, giving comfort not being one of his strong suits, so it’s a relief when she cuts him off. Of course, she cuts him off by pressing her lips to his, and that’s…that’s quite a bit more than a relief.

It’s a chaste kiss, a simple slide of her lips against his, but it fills him with more of that amazing warmth. The soul bond seems to thrum between them, and heat slips through his veins as he slides his hand into her hair. It’s perfect. It’s amazing. He hasn’t kissed a girl this chastely since middle school, but he doesn’t even mind.

He nips at her bottom lip, just a little, and can feel her smile against his mouth. He’s thinking of increasing the kiss, deepening it, a little something to take with him as he goes and risks his life in the name of SHIELD once again, when they’re interrupted.

“ _Jemma_!” Fitz squawks.

Jemma makes a dissatisfied little noise and pulls away. “Really, Fitz?”

Grant gives serious thought to shooting the engineer. If he only wings him, Jemma shouldn’t hold a grudge for _too_ long. He might even be nice and shoot Fitz somewhere it won’t interfere with his work, like a leg.

“Don’t ‘really’ me! What were you thinking? In the _lounge_?”

“Well you were so upset when I kissed him in the lab—”

“This is a _common_ area, people use it all the time! The whole team spends time here! You can’t just—”

Tuning out the argument, Grant sighs and looks down at his guns. He’s cleaned and reassembled his sidearm and his backup. He probably  doesn’t have time for the third gun, the one from the small arms closet, but he spent most of last week cleaning all of the guns in there, and none of them have been used since.

Skye comes out of her bunk and approaches the lounge, distracting Jemma and Fitz from their argument over the ‘mentally scarring’ outcomes of public displays of affection.

“Oh, Skye! You look wonderful!” Jemma exclaims. “That’s a lovely color on you.”

“Why thank you,” Skye says, with a little mock curtsy. “I do try.”

“There’s a taxi waiting for you outside the airport,” Grant tells her. He arranged it after their morning training. “It’ll take you to the National Library in downtown Valletta. All you have to do is cross Republic Square to the cathedral. Another taxi will be waiting to take you to Quinn’s compound. You got that?”

“Look for the big church,” Skye says with a little nod. “No problem.”

“Got your comm and your compact?” he asks.

“Check and check,” she says, holding up her purse.

“All right then,” he says. “This is a private airstrip, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find your taxi. Coulson and I will be right behind you.”

“Okay,” Skye takes a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck!” Jemma and Fitz call after her.

Coulson enters the lounge just as Skye exits. Grant’s a little annoyed, though not surprised, to see that he’s wearing a suit. Really? He’s going to go into the field wearing a tie? _Again_?

“Ready?” Coulson asks him, and Grant stands.

“Yes, sir.”

“Lola’s too distinctive for this op,” Coulson says, looking pained by the admission. “We’ll take the SUV.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant repeats as he holsters his various guns. Fitz gives them a little wave and heads into the briefing room, leaving Jemma still sitting on the couch.

“You’ve got about thirty seconds,” Coulson says, flicking his eyes between them. “We’re on a timer here.”

Grant nods and watches Coulson leave, then looks down at Jemma. She stands and smiles up at him.

“Do be careful, won’t you?” she asks.

“I will,” he promises. Then, before he can second guess himself, he leans down to capture her lips. It’s a brief kiss, even shorter than the first one, but it’s enough to get his blood thrumming.

She sways into him a little when he pulls back, and he can’t hold back a grin.

“For luck,” he explains, and then, after a little squeeze to her shoulders, he heads downstairs to the cargo bay.

Coulson doesn’t say anything as Grant climbs into the passenger seat, just reverses out of the cargo bay as soon as Grant buckles his seat belt. He’s glad. He’s never had anyone to leave behind before, and it’s a very strange feeling. But the op’s officially started now, so he puts it away. He can think about Jemma later. He’s got a job to do.

\---

They park near a secluded beach a good distance away from Quinn’s compound, then use a Zodiac to sail right up to the shore of the cove that leads up to the fence. Luckily, the SUV is large enough that the Zodiac fits when both rows of back seats are folded down. It would be pretty ridiculous to need to stop and inflate the boat in the middle of the op.

Grant pulls the Zodiac far enough up the beach that it shouldn’t get washed away, even if something goes wrong and they’re stuck in the compound during high tide.

“This could have been a traumatic experience for Dr. Hall,” Coulson says as they head up the trail towards the ridge. “He may not be the same when we find him, Ward. I’ll talk him down—we don’t want your _personality_ to set him on edge.”

Grant, honestly, is a little offended, even as he sees the logic in it. “Great time for humor, sir,” he says, scanning the area. “But my people skills are the least of our problems if Skye can’t get us in.”

There are no guards in sight, so he and Coulson head further up the trail.

When the reach the warning sign, it’s immediately obvious that the fence is still active—Grant can hear it buzzing. Still, Coulson bends down and gets a handful of sand, then throws it forward. The fence lights up as the sand makes impact, and Grant shakes his head.

“Next patrol any minute now,” he says, checking his watch.

Since Coulson and Grant’s job involves sneaking into the compound, their comms are on a different channel than Skye’s. It means that if anything happens, she’ll have to contact Jemma and Fitz, who will then have to switch channels to alert Grant and Coulson, which is inconvenient—but they can’t afford to be distracted by the rest of the team’s idle chatter when they need to keep an eye out for security.

“Skye’s offline,” May suddenly says. “Repeat, we’ve lost audio and vitals.”

Coulson and Grant exchange a look.

They don’t have much time before the next patrol comes around. Between them, they shouldn’t have any trouble taking down the patrol, but all it takes is one man choosing to sound the alarm instead of attacking them, and the whole op is blown.

 “Abort is not an option,” Grant points out, “But if she’s compromised—”

“She’s still our only way in to get to Dr. Hall,” Coulson interrupts.

“And we’re their only way out,” Grant finishes.

Before they can make any plans, they hear a guard shouting an all clear for the beach. They dive for cover, but the guards are following the trail, which will lead them straight to Grant and Coulson. They’re out of time—they need to put the guards down, and fast.

Luckily, there are only three guards. It doesn’t even takes ten seconds to knock them out, and Grant is moving to search the guards when he sees Coulson fiddling with a gun. He’s ejected the magazine no problem, but he’s struggling with the slide.

“Damn,” Coulson says. “A little rusty, I guess.”

After a moment of watching him fight, Grant takes the gun from Coulson and tosses it into the fence. It disintegrates on impact.

“Guys, clock’s ticking, where’s Skye?” Coulson demands.

Grant crouches to search the nearest guard, and after a moment, Coulson follows suit. Barely a moment passes before one of the downed guards’ radios sparks to life.

“We have a man down! Hostiles on the east ridge!” it announces.

“I see them!” someone shouts from nearby, and suddenly they’re being shot at.

Coulson and Grant run for the fence, but it’s still active.

“We need a reset here, Fitz!” Coulson shouts. There’s no response from the team on the Bus. “Fitz!”

“Saying his name repeatedly does _not_ increase productivity,” Jemma scolds.

“Okay, go!” Fitz says.

Grant thinks he hears Jemma say something else, but he can’t make it out over the sound of the cover fire he’s laying down. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the fence flash yellow as it deactivates, and he dives across the line after Coulson.

He makes it just in time—the fence pops back up as soon as he’s crossed. It acts as an excellent shield against bullets from the guards, but he and Coulson don’t hang around to test it. They head further up the trail as soon as Grant’s back on his feet.

They enter the compound through an empty garden.

“I’ll look for Dr. Hall down in the lab,” Coulson says.

“I’ll get Skye,” Grant confirms. They split up.

Grant takes a side door into the main building. It’s quiet—apparently Quinn’s security hasn’t gotten the memo from the perimeter guards—and also huge. He walks down three different hallways, all of which look exactly the same, and finds himself quickly turned around.

“Coulson,” May says in his ear. “The leak came from—”

“Dr. Hall,” Coulson finishes. “Yeah, I’m getting that.”

Well, that’s an unexpected complication, but Grant’s focus is on finding Quinn’s office. He really doesn’t regret that Jemma’s safely on the plane, but he wishes he had spent as much time memorizing the blueprints of this building as he did preparing for the last op, when Jemma was going to be in danger.

The whole building shakes, and Grant lets out a grunt as he’s thrown into the wall.

“What was that?” he asks.

“Ward, Coulson, status?” May snaps.

“Fine,” Grant says. “But the whole building just shook.”

There’s no response from Coulson.

“Coulson?” May says. Still no answer.

Grant bites back a curse. Okay, he needs to find Skye, then find Coulson, then get Skye and Coulson out—hopefully along with Hall, but if he arranged for his own kidnapping, that might be more difficult than anticipated.

“Getting a little turned around, here,” he says. Figuring the op’s pretty much screwed anyway, he activates his tracker. “Am I headed in the right direction?”

“Yes,” May says. “Take the second left and then keep going. You should hit the reception area soon.”

He takes the left and speeds up slightly. There’s still no word from Coulson. Grant’s edging into ‘seriously concerned’ territory when the senior agent finally speaks.

“Guys, we need to talk,” he says.

“Lost you for a minute,” May sighs, obviously relieved. “We’re aware of the problem, sir. Hall _wanted_ Quinn to kidnap him?”

“Yeah, why would he do that?” Fitz asks.

“What is wrong with him?” Jemma demands.

“Quinn built a gravity generator, like the one we found but bigger,” Coulson groans. He doesn’t sound good. Grant just hopes he’s still mobile. “Hall knew Quinn would need him to control its raw power, but Hall just wanted to unleash it.”

“The one we found was 2.5 centimeters in diameter. It stopped a semi,” Jemma points out. “How big are we talking?”

“12 feet,” Coulson says. Grant barely bites back a curse. “It’ll definitely take down the entire compound.”

“It’ll _sink_ the place,” Jemma corrects a little frantically.

“Work a solution,” Coulson orders. “I’ll disconnect the power before things get…crazy.”

Grant’s a little concerned about the way he trailed off at the end there, but he doesn’t have time to worry about Coulson. A glance out the nearest window shows that he’s nearing the west side of the building, which is the side Quinn’s office is on. He’s getting close, but they’re running out of time.

“This place is massive,” he says when he finally reaches the reception area. “Where am I heading?”

“Southwest corner,” May says hurriedly. “Ward, tell me you’ve got things covered on the ground. I can’t do a damn thing from out here.”

The ground shakes beneath his feet, and he barely maintains his balance.

“I’m working on it,” he tells her, and continues on his way.

He passes another window, and he turns to it as movement catches his attention. He’s just in time to see Skye take a dive into the pool. He looks around for the nearest door, but his progress is interrupted when the building shakes again—and this time he can’t stay on his feet. Once the shaking stops, he jumps to his feet, and decides he doesn’t have time to screw around looking for a door.

He goes out the window instead.

Skye’s not in the pool anymore, but it’s easy enough to follow her wet footprints out into the garden. He stumbles a few times as the ground shakes beneath him, but he doesn’t fall again, and he makes it to the garden just in time—Skye’s being held in place by two men while another stands in front of her.

These guards are better trained than the perimeter guards, and it takes him a little longer to put them down. One of them gets in a lucky hit that knocks the breath out of him, but it’s not enough to stop him from taking all three men out. He tosses the last one into the pond, checks that the other two are still down, and then turns to Skye.

She runs up to him and latches on to his vest, clearly out of breath.

“Are you hurt?” he asks her. She shakes her head, still holding on to him, and he tells her, “Just follow my orders, I’ll get us out of here,” in what he hopes is a calming voice.

She nods a little, and lets go of him as he leads her away from the house. The labs are on the other side, so it’ll be easier to go around the outside of the house and find a door there, rather than go back inside and risk getting turned around again. If the way the ground keeps shaking is any indication, they’re running out of time.

A few minutes later, the ground pitches underneath them, and all of a sudden they’re walking on a wall. Luckily, they had already made it inside. Grant tries to brush off the mental image of himself and Skye floating away into the upper atmosphere as they approach the lab.

“Nothing!” Coulson says. “FitzSimmons? I tried to cut the power—it’s still going!”

“Find some sort of catalyst,” Jemma tells him. “Something to create a chemical reaction in the core.”

Grant and Skye kneel down to look through the window in the wall—or door, rather. He sees Coulson, holding a gun on Hall, and from this position, he can hear Hall speaking.

“They’ll call this a…a tragedy,” he’s saying, “They won’t understand the good I did here.”

Coulson’s eyes flit to the window.

“Killing innocent people?” he asks.

“Saving millions,” Hall corrects him. “We have to live with the choices we make, but sometimes we have to die with them, too.”

“I understand,” Coulson says, lowering his gun. “You made a hard call.”

“Yes,” Hall says.

“Now I have to make mine,” Coulson tells him, and he pulls the trigger. He reaches up and grabs a hanging wire as the glass beneath his feet breaks, sending Hall tumbling down, out of Grant’s view. He hears screaming, and then suddenly gravity returns to normal, sending Grant and Skye crashing to the floor.

He opens the door, and Skye scampers into the room ahead of him. Inside, they find Coulson, alone, on his feet. Grant follows his gaze to see the gravity generator, obviously powering down. There’s no sign of Hall, and it takes him a moment to realize what that means.

Coulson used Hall as the catalyst. That’s what he meant by the ‘hard choice’—he sacrificed Hall’s life to save the rest of them. As far as Grant’s concerned, the guy pretty much deserved it, but Jemma and Fitz are going to be heartbroken.

“You want me to tell them, sir?” he asks quietly.

“No,” Coulson says. “It was my call. I’ll tell them.”

Grant pulls out his comm. Maybe it makes him a coward, but he doesn’t want to hear Jemma’s reaction to this. Not when he’s miles away, completely helpless to offer comfort.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says to Skye.

He leads the way out of the compound, and soon enough they’re back in the Zodiac. As they sail toward the SUV, Skye fills them in on what happened after she ditched her comm. Grant considers taking her to task for that, but honestly, it worked. It doesn’t help him trust her any, of course, but he can’t argue with results.

“Oh, and he pointed a gun at me!” she says, strangely happy. “I got it away from him, just like you showed me, Ward.”

“Good work,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Does that mean Quinn—?”

He trails off as she loses her smile.

“No,” she almost whispers. “You were right. It’s one thing to get the gun. It’s another to pull the trigger.”

He nods to himself.

“We can work on that,” he says.

\---

When they get back to the Bus, they find Jemma alone downstairs. Coulson and Skye take one look at her and immediately head up to the lounge. Grant unbuckles his vest and drops it on a table as he enters the lab.

“Hey,” Grant says cautiously. Jemma looks up at him, and he barely holds back a wince. She’s obviously been crying.

“Hello,” she says. “Are you—are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. A little bruised, maybe. And you?”

“Oh,” she says, pushing away from the counter. “I’m fine, of course. Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve been here, safely on the Bus, the entire time. _I_ was never in danger. I wasn’t shot at, or threatened, or…”

He slips his arms around her and pulls her into his chest as she trails off. She immediately returns the hug, her hands clutching at the back of his shirt.

“I’m sorry about Dr. Hall,” he says into her hair.

“I just don’t understand,” she says shakily. “I mean, of course, as a scientist, one knows the risks—the things we discover, or invent, may be twisted to a purpose we didn’t intend, but… His solution was to cause _so much_ destruction—he would’ve taken half the island with him. How could he _possibly_ think that was the best solution?”

Her voice breaks on the last word, and he tightens his grip on her.

“I don’t know,” he tells her. He feels completely helpless. “I’m sorry.”

She lets out a shuddering sigh, and he’s abruptly reminded of two weeks ago, when she’d held him like this after he nearly got pulled from the plane. This time is worse, though—last time, she was holding onto him so tightly because she was relieved he hadn’t died. This time, she’s holding on because she’s trying to contain her tears.

Jemma takes a deep breath that ends on a sob, and suddenly she’s crying. He has no idea what else to do, so he holds her close and murmurs hopefully comforting things into her ear. Previous experience with women tells him that asking her to calm down will only make things worse, so he just lets her cry herself out.

It takes a while, but eventually her sobs taper off, and she’s just taking deep breaths, obviously trying to regain control of herself. After another minute, she clears her throat and pulls away, patting his chest.

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” he tells her. He tucks some of her hair behind her ear, unable to resist the urge. “I just wish there was something I could do to help you.”

“You did,” she says with a little smile. “You really did.”

“Well, good,” he says. He checks his watch. “It’s pretty late. Do you want dinner, or…?”

She shakes her head. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I believe I’ll turn in. I’m a little behind on sleep, as you know.”

“That’s fine,” he assures her. “Mind if I walk you up?”

“Please.”

Upstairs, he walks Jemma to her bunk. When they reach it, he sees that Fitz’s door is already closed. Jemma steps into the bunk and turns to face him.

“Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

“For letting me cry all over you in the lab,” she clarifies with a slight smile. Then she hesitates. “And…for what you told me, this morning. About your family. I know it was difficult for you, so I wanted to thank you, for sharing it.”

He has to resist the urge to kiss her again. It’s definitely not the time—she’s upset, grieving her former teacher and struggling with what he tried to do—but she’s just. She’s just perfect, and it completely overwhelms him.

“Thank you for listening,” he replies quietly.

“Goodnight, Grant.”

“Goodnight, Jemma.”

He watches her door close, detours to his bunk to change into a slightly less damp shirt, and then heads down to the cargo bay. He thinks he’ll take the night off of training for once, but he left his vest in the lab, and he needs to pick it up. He’s surprised, when he reaches the catwalk above the lab, to find Skye at the punching bag. She’s hitting harder than she ever has before, keeping her hands up, in the proper stance—basically, she’s taking it seriously, for the first time ever.

“You and your brothers, where’d you grow up?” she asks him as he reaches the bottom step.

“Massachusetts, mostly,” he answers.

“A house?” she presses.

“You didn’t?” he asks.

 “One house,” she walks away from the bag, fiddling with her wrapped hands. “The Brodys…I was nine. Sent me back to St. Agnes after a month,” she shakes her head. “Said I wasn’t a good fit.”

“Foster parents,” he says. “Your first?”

“My third,” she corrects, turning to face him. “I’d heard it before, but. This one was different.”

“’Cause you wanted them to like you.”

“Bad,” she nods. “I called her mom, once. Tried it out. Guess it wasn’t a good fit.”

It would be impossible not to sympathize, and he doesn’t even try. He knows what it’s like, to wish desperately for the people in your life to care about you—and he knows what it’s like not to get it. It doesn’t mean he trusts her at all, but he understands her a little better, hearing this.

Skye crosses back to the punching bag and starts jabbing at it. Again, she’s a lot more serious about it than any of their training sessions.

“Hoping for something and losing it, hurts more than never hoping for anything,” she says.

He grabs the bag to get her attention. “We won’t turn our back.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she tells him. “I’ve made my choice. I want this. Bad.”

He braces against the bag, holding it steady as she keeps hitting it.

“And I know there’s a truth serum,” she adds, in a much lighter tone.

“Whatever you say, rookie.”

\---

Later, after Skye’s gone to bed and he’s dropped his vest in his room, Grant heads up the stairs to Coulson’s office. He knocks, and Coulson calls him in.

“Simmons alright?” Coulson asks as soon as Grant enters the office.

“She will be,” he nods. “But eventually she’ll want to know—what’s going to be done with the Gravitonium, sir?”

“Deepest level of the Fridge,” Coulson says, leaning back in his chair. “In a vault no one knows exists, with no label, and not listed in any record we have.”

Grant nods. “Good.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Coulson tells him with a sardonic smile. “Was there anything else?”

“No, sir,” Grant says. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Ward.”

He goes back downstairs and into the kitchen. He’s not really in the mood for cooking, so he grabs one of the frozen dinners from the freezer and sticks it in the microwave. Not the most delicious meal, but he’s certainly had worse.

As he watches the plate spin in the microwave, he ponders Skye’s unexpected share session. Apparently she’s fully dedicated herself to SHIELD, which he’s of two minds about. Of more interest to him is that she chose him to spill to. He would’ve expected, if told Skye was going to talk about her past, for her to tell Jemma.

So why him? Is it because of what he told her this morning? Did she find common ground with him in the revelation that he had a messed up childhood? Was she more willing to share because he did it first? Or maybe, he thinks as the microwave beeps, maybe she told him for the same reason he told her. Maybe she was playing him, trying to get him to trust her. He’s made no secret of the fact that he’s suspicious of her motivation. He knows he’s not the only one on the Bus who is, but he’s certainly been the most blatant.

As far as ploys to gain his trust go, spilling her heart out about a troubled childhood is a pretty good one. But why bother? It could just be that she’s tired of his suspicion. If she really does intend to stick around, getting on his good side is a reasonable priority. It could also be that she’s up to something, and needs him not to be suspicious to get away with it.

Becoming her SO, telling her about his brothers—that was Grant playing her, trying to gain her trust. He knows the secret he’s hiding.

What’s Skye’s? And, more importantly, will it put Jemma in danger? Because Skye has been growing on him, sure, but he promised himself at nine years old that he would never allow _anyone_ to harm his soulmate.

Skye might genuinely want to be part of SHIELD. Or she might be playing the long game, waiting to get something from them. The question is, is he willing to risk it? Or should he get rid of her now, before she can do anything that might harm Jemma?


	4. Eye Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old trainee of Coulson's is stealing diamonds. Things get complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me a lot of trouble! Eye Spy is one of my least favorite episodes, and I think it shows. Once again, thank you for all of your comments and kudos! It means a lot, and it's great motivation, so please keep it up! :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant doesn’t actually have a lot of day-to-day responsibilities, as far as the team goes. He’s got a lot to do in the field, of course, but when they’re not on an op? He’s responsible for the upkeep of the various armories they’ve got scattered throughout the plane, but that’s not an every day job—he’s already worked out a rotation that will allow every weapon to be cleaned once every two months, which is actually a little more frequent than necessary. He’s responsible for Skye’s training, obviously—which is going better now that she’s taking it a little more seriously—but it’s only a few hours in the morning and a few hours in the evening. Basically, if they’re not on an op, he spends a lot of time cooling his heels.

So he’s taken to hanging around the lab. He’ll bring one of his books down and park himself in a corner with it. Jemma and Fitz have a habit of treating him like he’s their lab assistant, but he doesn’t really mind. It means doing a lot of grunt work—lots of fetching and carrying and getting things from the top shelves—but it gives him something to do.

On Tuesday, once he’s showered off the sweat from his morning training, he goes down to the lab and finds the so-called ‘night-night’ rifle lying on one of the tables.

“Haven’t seen this in a while,” he says to Jemma. Namely, he hasn’t seen it since he used it to shoot Mike Peterson, the very first day of this assignment.

“Hmm?” she asks, pulling away from her microscope and following his gaze. “Oh, yes. Fitz has nearly finished the night-night pistol. He’s built a prototype now, so he wanted the rifle for comparison purposes.”

Grant considers this. “Define ‘nearly’.”

“There have been a few problems with the mag,” she tells him. “But I expect he’ll have them sorted by dinner time.”

He nods, pleased. “Good. That kind of weapon will definitely come in handy. But we’re still not calling it the ‘night-night’ pistol.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to take that up with Fitz,” she says, turning back to her microscope. “I’ve not been able to change his mind.”

“I’m confident in my ability to make him see reason,” he assures her. He knows Fitz is intimidated by him, and he’s entirely willing to take advantage of that. “In the meantime, do you need anything from the top shelf?”

“No, thank you.”

“Then I’ll be over here with my book,” he tells her, taking a chair in the corner of the lab. “Let me know if anything’s about to explode.”

“That only happened once,” she says distractedly.

“Twice,” he corrects.

She waves a hand at him dismissively, obviously focused on her work, and he smiles to himself. He never thought he’d find it funny to be ignored by his soulmate, but then, there were a lot of things he never expected. He settles himself in his chair and opens his book, Myrer’s _Once an Eagle_ , to the bookmark.

Even if Garrett’s plan miserably fails and they don’t find out anything about Coulson’s resurrection, he’ll at least be happy to know that Grant’s finally making his way down that list of required reading.

Fitz comes into the lab from the storage area nearly twenty minutes later.

“How’s the pistol coming?” Grant asks him.

Fitz grumbles something uncomplimentary about Grant’s ability to comprehend his work, which Grant takes to mean ‘not well’. He smirks to himself and returns to his book.

Several hours pass in peace and, mostly, quiet. Jemma and Fitz have a brief debate about the dendrotoxin rounds for the night-night pistol, and Jemma has a habit of talking to herself as she works, but aside from that, there’s very little conversation in the lab.

Coulson comes into the lab around lunchtime.

“You seen Skye?” he asks Grant.

“Not since weapons training,” Grant answers.

“She stopped saying ‘bang’ when she pulls the trigger?”

“Mostly,” Grant says. “Now if she can just learn the difference between the safety release and the magazine release, we’ll be making real progress.”

Coulson nods to himself.

“FitzSimmons,” he says. The two scientists turn away from their work. “Yesterday, millions of dollars in diamonds were stolen in Sweden. It’s the third major diamond heist this month. The brokers hired more than twenty men to transport empty briefcases, trying to hide the case carrying the diamonds. All of the men were killed in the Stockholm subway and the diamonds were taken. The CCTV cameras were dark during the attack—I need you to see if you can get anything from them. Trace the hack if you can.”

“Yes, sir,” Jemma says.

“On it,” Fitz says over her.

“Ward, with me.”

Grant stands and follows Coulson into the cargo bay.

“I’m going to take Skye and May to the scene. In the meantime, I need you to run facial rec with customs, border patrol, outgoing flights and trains. I think we’re looking for a former SHIELD agent named Akela Amador. I already have her file pulled up on the computer in the briefing room.”

“Right away, sir.”

“And Ward?” Coulson says before Grant can leave. “Keep this quiet for now.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agrees. He doesn’t allow his confusion to show on his face as he heads up to the briefing room. It’s an odd request in more ways than one. Presumably, Coulson means that Grant is supposed to keep it from the rest of the team—why else would he call Grant out into the cargo bay instead of just telling him in the lab? But why does it need to be kept quiet?

He’d assume it were an issue of clearance levels, if it weren’t Coulson he’s dealing with. The man has proven to be strangely lax in the area of protocol.

When he pulls up Amador’s file, things become a little clearer. The file lists her as killed in action in 2007. It also lists Coulson as her training officer. So it’s probably not just the team that Grant’s supposed to keep this from. If Grant finds evidence of Amador’s involvement, protocol says that he should immediately contact HQ to report a rogue agent.

Of course, the question is whether he should obey protocol or Coulson. On the one hand, going against Coulson’s orders won’t do much for the tentative trust he shares with the man—trust which is an important part of Garrett’s plan. On the other hand, Coulson’s personal connection to Amador might be clouding his judgment, which could put the team—put Jemma—at risk.

He taps his fingers thoughtfully on the table, then shakes his head. There’s no point in worrying about it before Amador’s involvement is confirmed.

It takes more than an hour, but eventually, with the help of facial rec, he’s able to track Amador’s movements. She left Sweden on a Swedish passport—under a false name, obviously—flew into Belarus, and then bought a train ticket, destination Zloda. Zloda isn’t a very large city, and there’s not much there. It seems like an odd choice.

Coulson isn’t back yet, so Grant takes the opportunity to consult the SHIELD database for information on people who might be able to fence such a large haul. Once he has the list, he examines their phone records and email accounts—already helpfully hacked by someone in SHIELD communications—and finds nothing to indicate that they’ve been contacted by Amador. Additionally, none of them live within what he would consider a workable distance from Zloda.

So what the hell is she doing there?

Officially out of leads to follow, he considers the information on screen. Amador’s highly trained, somehow pulling off impossible heists, and she’s in possession of millions of dollars in diamonds. She’s a very clear threat. So should he follow protocol and alert HQ? Or should he back Coulson’s play, whatever that might be?

He can’t afford to alienate Coulson. He’ll have to trust that the senior agent has a plan.

That decided, he’s considering getting some lunch when Coulson, May, and Skye return. They don’t come into the briefing room, instead heading for the stairs up to Coulson’s office, but Coulson pauses to give Grant a questioning look. Grant nods, and a pained expression flickers over Coulson’s face before he follows May up stairs. Grant decides to wait on lunch. He’s sure it won’t be long before Coulson’s back and wanting an update.

Sure enough, it’s only twenty minutes later that all three of them are coming back down. They walk around the outside of the briefing room instead of coming in through the door next to the stairs, and Grant watches them through the windows. Coulson’s obviously filling them in, and May doesn’t look happy. She and Skye linger outside for a moment after Coulson enters the briefing room, and Grant takes it he’s not the only one having doubts about Coulson’s unusual reticence.

Instead of questioning him, Grant fills Coulson, May, and Skye in on what he discovered.

“Let’s focus on finding Amador,” Coulson decides once Grant’s finished.

“I’ll let HQ know she’s alive so they can assist with the manhunt,” May volunteers.

“I’d like to hold off on that,” Coulson says at once. “Until we know more.”

May looks distinctly unimpressed.

“Contact Belarus authorities, find us a place to park the Bus,” Coulson orders. Then he turns to Grant. “Put together a list of inns, hotels, and pensions near Zloda. There can’t be that many of them. We’ll find her.”

Grant nods and leaves the briefing room. After a moment of debate, he decides to work in the lab. He’ll use one of the computers down there to compile the list, then drag Jemma and Fitz up for lunch.

When he reaches the lab, he’s surprised to find Jemma and Fitz back to working on the projects from the morning.

“Finish tracing the hack?” he asks them.

“There’s nothing to trace,” Jemma tells him. “And there’s no recovering the footage. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the cameras hadn’t been hacked at all. Whoever did this is very, very good.”

“About that,” Grant says, and fills them in on Amador.

“And Agent Coulson doesn’t want HQ notified?” Jemma asks. “Why not?”

“He trained Amador,” he explains. “If I had to guess, I’d say he feels responsible for her, wants to help her. He’ll try to reason with her, and HQ…”

“Is more inclined towards shooting first and asking questions _after_ the funeral,” she finishes. “Well, I suppose that makes sense.”

“How on earth does it make sense for Agent Coulson to violate protocol?” Fitz asks her, incredulous.

“He’s been violating protocol since day one,” Jemma points out. “We’re still here, aren’t we?”

“Fair point,” Fitz concedes, then looks at Grant. “So, what’s next then?”

“We’re headed to Belarus,” Grant says. “I need to put together a list of places Amador might be staying. _You_ should finish that pistol. Coulson’s going to want to bring Amador in alive, but she’s not going to come quietly.”

Fitz nods a little and turns back to his workstation, apparently in a cooperative mood. It’s unusual, but Grant’ll take it.

“And is there anything I can do?” Jemma asks.

“Not yet,” he says. “I’ll let you know.”

Coulson wanders in as Grant is finishing up the list.

“FitzSimmons, you got anything for me?” he asks.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” Jemma tells him, and fills him in.

“Yeah, I figured,” Coulson says. He checks his watch. “We’ll be in Belarus in three hours. I’m going to want you two and Skye to scan for any sort of electronic transmission—Amador’s got to be contacting her buyer somehow.”

Jemma and Fitz exchange looks as Grant takes a deep breath. It makes sense, of course. They need to find Amador quickly, before she steals anything else, and having all three of them scanning for her will speed up the process. But Grant’s read Amador’s file. He knows how dangerous she is, what she’s capable of, and to be honest, he’d really rather not have Jemma in the same country as Amador, let alone the same city.

As it happens, there is a _really good reason_ that SHIELD protocol forbids soulmates from working on the same field team. Jemma’s going to be in danger for as long as this assignment lasts, and Grant just has to learn to deal with it. All he can do is make sure to protect her to the very best of his ability.

“Is that a problem?” Coulson asks mildly.

“No, sir,” Jemma says.

“Not at all,” Fitz agrees. “No problems here.”

“Although, if you want us to scan the whole city—we’ll need a _lot_ of space for our equipment. I don’t know that we’ll fit in the SUV.”

“I’ll rent a van,” Coulson says dismissively.

“Great,” Fitz says. “A van, that—that’ll work, yes.”

Grant gives Jemma a questioning look, and she grimaces. So it’s not just his imagination—Fitz is definitely freaking out.

“Three hours,” Coulson reminds them, and leaves.

“You okay, Fitz?” Grant asks.

“What? Yes, yes, I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” Fitz says. “Simmons, I’m going to go fetch the—”

“Right, yes,” Jemma agrees. “Do you think we’ll need—?”

“Best to have it, just in case.”

“Yes, probably. I’ll box it up, then.”

“Good,” Fitz says, and leaves.

Grant shakes his head, amused. He’s pretty sure that Jemma and Fitz just agreed exactly what gear to bring, without ever actually naming anything. He has to admit, it’s pretty impressive how they always seem to just read each other’s minds.

And he’s surprised to find that it doesn’t bother him at all anymore, not even a little. He thinks of what Jemma told him last week, about her and Fitz taking the name FitzSimmons as a way of acknowledging what they meant to each other— about how lonely she was, before Fitz.

He already decided, weeks ago, to be happy for Jemma, that she found a brother in Fitz. It had still bothered him a little, though, which he thinks is understandable—after all, he’s her soulmate, so it’s only natural that he would be a little upset about her being so close to another man. But the last of his lingering jealousy melts away as Fitz reenters the lab, and he watches the way they debate over some kind of scanner, the way they hardly ever finish their sentences.

Grant has no hope of ever understanding Jemma’s work. He’s glad she has someone who does. On a personal level, he finds Fitz annoying, but he can appreciate the other man for what he means to Jemma. And he promises himself, as they call him over to do some heavy lifting, that he’ll do his absolute best to protect Fitz, too. For Jemma’s sake.

\---

Three hours later, they’ve landed at a private airstrip. It’s a few hours’ drive from Zloda, but it was the best they could do. Everyone’s suited up and they’re just waiting on the delivery of the van Coulson arranged to rent. All of the equipment they’re bringing is piled up in the cargo bay, and Grant stands back and watches as Jemma and Fitz fuss over one of the cases.

Skye sidles up next to him, and he glances down at her to find her eyes fixed on Jemma.

“What’s it like?” she asks quietly.

“What?”

“The soul bond,” she clarifies. “It’s gotta be settled by now, right? So what’s it like?”

Grant looks back at Jemma, considers the thrum of the bond in his chest, the weight of the tether around his heart. He can’t imagine putting it into words.

“Warm,” he says simply. “Why?”

“Just always wondered, is all,” Skye says. She gives him a bright smile. “Warm, huh? That’s nice, Ward. It’s almost poetic, for you.”

He rolls his eyes as she darts away to bug Coulson. She’s been doing that a lot, lately, Skye. Popping up and asking him something, trying to make a connection, then wandering away like it never happened. Maybe she’s trying to make nice. Or maybe she’s playing him. He hasn’t decided yet.

He’ll figure it out later. At the moment, he’s got a job to do.

“Do we have a call sign for the van?” he checks with May as the van drives up to the bottom of the ramp.

“Short Bus seems appropriate,” she muses.

“Sounds good,” he agrees, smiling a little. After all, he’s going to be the one driving.

Once they get the van loaded up, they head for Zloda. May stays behind—partially, Grant suspects, because Coulson doesn’t trust her not to just kill Amador when they find her. Jemma’s in the backseat with Fitz and Skye, and as they approach the outskirts of the town, she’s chattering happily about always wanting to visit Zloda. Apparently a Nobel-winning scientist was born nearby, and Jemma’s enthusiasm about it has Grant working to hold back a smile.

Fitz is less excited. “I'm just a little bit preoccupied. Our first and only other time in the field wasn't exactly a picnic, was it?”

Grant’s a little surprised by this reasonable caution, as Fitz didn’t portray any reservations about going into the field in search of Hall last week, but perhaps he’s thinking of the way that ended, rather than Reyes’ attempted hijacking of the Bus. Being far away and helpless to protect someone you care about can be a lot worse than being in danger, Grant knows.

Coulson is attempting to reassure Fitz when the radio beeps.

“Bus to Short Bus,” May says.

“Go for Short Bus,” Grant answers.

“Next time, I’ll decide what we call ourselves, okay?” Coulson mutters, and Grant gives him his best look of innocent confusion.

Considering the fact that Grant’s made a career of undercover work, it’s a pretty convincing look.

“HQ has requested a status update,” May informs them.

“What’d you tell them?”

“That we’re tracking a potential suspect, nothing more.”

“I owe you one.”

“More like three,” May corrects, and then signs off.

“Here’s good,” Coulson tells him a few seconds later, and Grant pulls over to the side of the road and parks the van. They’ll be going into town on foot, while Jemma, Fitz, and Skye stay in the bus and try to find electronic traces of Amador’s presence.

“Maintain radio silence unless you really need help,” Grant tells them. There’s always a chance that Amador will be doing her own scanning, and it’s best not to risk it.

He doesn’t single out Jemma and remind her to be careful. It’s tempting, but Jemma might take it the wrong way.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, it’s that he really really hates taking her into the field. But, it is what it is, so he gets out of the car without saying anything else. He ignores Fitz shouting after him.

As he and Coulson walk through Zloda, Grant attempts to sympathize with him. He gets a twisted sense of amusement from it, actually, trying to offer comfort that Coulson was betrayed by someone he believed in. Although, Grant gets the feeling, from Coulson’s response, that Coulson still believes in Amador—that he actually thinks she might have a good reason for what she’s done.

Apparently Grant’s attempt at sympathizing seemed like an invitation for conversation to Coulson, because as they leave the third inn (after striking out once again), the senior agent speaks.

“Fitz seem a little uneasy to you?”

“More than a little,” Grant notes, checking his phone for the address of the next place on their list. “He said he was fine about twenty times on the flight over.”

Coulson makes a thoughtful noise. “He didn’t see any action on our last op.”

“But we did, sir,” Grant points out.

“And a man he respected died trying to kill us all,” Coulson muses. “You think he’s, what? Reminded of his own mortality?”

“I don’t think he ever forgot,” Grant says. “But between that and what happened with the 0-8-4, it hasn’t been an easy introduction to field work. And Jemma says he wasn’t crazy about the idea in the first place.”

“He wasn’t,” Coulson confirms. “Well, hopefully if this goes off without a hitch, he’ll calm down a little.”

“Hopefully,” Grant agrees, although frankly he thinks the chances of this going off without a hitch are pretty slim.

After a moment, Coulson asks, “You and Simmons talk about Fitz?”

“They’re close,” Grant says, giving a little shrug.

“You know, when I sent in the paperwork for your exemption, Hill bet me twenty that you’d have Fitz scared away from Simmons by the end of the week.”

Grant flicks a glance at him. “That long?”

Coulson ignores him. “But here we are, nearly a month into this team, and you’re both still here.”

If Grant had really wanted to get rid of Fitz, he’d have sent the man running back to a lab posting by the end of the first day. With his new perspective on the relationship between Jemma and Fitz, he’s glad he didn’t.

“Fitz is annoying, sir,” he says plainly. “But he’s important to Jemma. And for her? I’ll put up with a lot worse than Fitz.”

 “You glad I talked you into staying on the team?” Coulson asks, smiling a little smugly.

“Haven’t decided yet,” Grant says, then looks around. “We may have taken a wrong turn somewhere, sir.”

 “GPS says we’re right in front of it,” Coulson tells him, looking at his phone.

In unison, they turn to look at the barber shop they’re standing in front of.

Coulson indicates a man standing against a nearby wall. “I’ll go…ask that gentleman for directions.”

Grant nods and follows him over. The man knows exactly where the inn is, and helpfully points them in the right direction. Coulson is thanking him when Grant’s phone rings.

“Did you locate Amador?” he asks in lieu of a hello.

“What? No, not yet,” Skye says. Grant shakes his head at Coulson, and they start to walk in the direction of the inn. “But we've found a broadcast with some…weird signal encrypted into it.”

“You think Amador might be communicating on that signal?”

“Maybe,” Skye says. “But I called with an equally pressing question for you, my SO. What are we supposed to do if we have to pee?”

Grant rolls his eyes. “You broke protocol because you need a bathroom break?”

“It was a really, really long drive and everyone’s nervous,” Skye says defensively.

Grant honestly had not taken the need for bathroom breaks into account when planning this op, and a glance at Coulson shows that he hadn’t, either. Still, they can’t afford to let Jemma, Skye, or Fitz leave the bus.

“There’s a container at the bottom of the blue chest,” he tells her.

There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Not the _water bottle_.”

“That’s the one,” he confirms. He knows exactly what her reaction to that will be, and doesn’t even bother to listen to her response. “Agent Coulson and I are trying to find a dangerous criminal. If there is nothing else pressing—”

“Well, listen, Fitz wants to know if you packed any snacks,” Skye says.

Grant hangs up. Even if he were in the mood to put up with Skye, which he’s not, they’ve finally reached the inn. He tucks his phone back into his pocket as they enter.

Surprisingly enough, they finally hit pay dirt. The woman behind the front desk not only recognizes Amador, she calls Amador her ‘angel’. She also thinks Amador is psychic.

He and Coulson obtain the woman’s permission to examine Amador’s room, but when they enter it’s immediately obvious that Amador has already cleared out. They take a close look around anyway, hoping for some sort of clue as to Amador’s next move.

Grant’s in the middle of rifling through the bedcovers when his phone rings again and, frustrated, he answers with, “If this isn’t because you’ve found Amador, I’m doubling your warm-ups.”

“Well, we’re in luck then,” Jemma answers brightly.

“Jemma? Where’s Skye?” he asks, surprised. Then her words register. “Wait, you found Amador? How?”

“Well, you see,” Jemma begins, and it might be his imagination, but he thinks her voice wavers a bit. “She sort of…ran us off the road.”

“She _what_? Are you hurt?” he demands. Coulson straightens in concern.

“No, no, we’re fine,” she rushes to assure him. “Just a few scrapes and bruises, nothing needing medical attention. It’s just that we won’t be able to drive back to the Bus because the van…fell over, a little. Could you send someone to fetch us, please?”

Grant takes a deep breath. “When you say the van fell over?”

“I mean that it’s upside down,” Jemma says. “In a ditch.”

“We’ll be there soon,” he promises. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Positive,” she confirms. “We’re all fine.”

“Okay, we’re on our way.”

They exchange goodbyes, and Grant hangs up.

“Amador found them,” he tells Coulson, already heading for the door. “Ran them right off the road. We’re gonna need a new ride.”

Coulson swears and follows him out of the room.

On their way back to the van, Coulson calls in to HQ, requesting a local team to come pick up the van and determine whether it can be salvaged, or if they’ll need to buy it from the rental company. He also requests that the local team bring an extra vehicle that they can borrow to get back to the Bus.

“We’re in for a wait,” Coulson says once he hangs up. “The closest team is based in Minsk, so it’ll be about three hours.”

Grant just nods, not trusting his voice. He speeds up a little. He knows Jemma said she’s fine, but he won’t be able to believe it until he sees her with his own eyes.

Their walk into town took nearly twenty minutes. They make it back to the van in twelve. When they get there, they find Jemma, Skye, and Fitz sitting on the edge of the road, their equipment piled around them.

Jemma stands when she sees him. “Grant!”

He all but runs the last few feet to her side and grabs her in a tight hug. After a few moments, which he uses to steady his breathing and regain his calm, he takes her by the shoulders, holding her back from him a little so that he can look her over. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Grant,” she promises. “Barely a scratch.”

A quick visual examination supports that. There’s a scrape on her left cheek, and a rapidly reddening spot near her hairline that will probably turn into a bruise, but other than that, she looks fine.

“Good,” he says, letting go of her. “That’s…good.”

“We’re fine, too,” Skye interjects. “In case you were wondering.”

He finally looks away from Jemma to give Skye a look. “I wasn’t.”

“Ouch. That hurts, Ward.”

“Where’s your gun?” he asks her, noting she’s not armed.

Skye suddenly looks shifty.

“Skye?” he presses.

She sighs and opens the cooler, pulling out her gun. When she holds it up, he takes it from her and is not really surprised to find that the mag is missing.

“And the magazine?” he asks. Skye points wordlessly to the van. “Great.”

“More weapons training?” Skye guesses miserably.

“A lot more,” he confirms. “And there’s no time like the present.”

\---

Half an hour later, even Grant is sick of weapons training. Skye is the opposite of a natural with this, and there’s a reason Grant went with field work instead of becoming a training officer. It’s difficult to keep his temper with Skye as he goes over the basics, again and again and again, and he has to draw on all of his training to keep his annoyance off of his face.

It becomes easier in the second hour, when Jemma comes over and joins them.

“You did promise me some lessons,” she reminds him with a cheerful smile.

“I did,” he agrees. “All right, take a seat.”

He leads them through the basics: loading and unloading a gun, disassembling it, identifying the different parts, putting it back together. Even though he’s been giving Skye lessons in this for weeks, Jemma picks up on it quickly, and by the time the SHIELD team from Minsk arrives, the two women are racing to see who can disassemble and reassemble the gun fastest.

“I hate to break this up,” Grant says. “But we’re ready to go.”

“Ha! I win!” Jemma says, looking adorably excited. Her gun is completely reassembled, lying neatly on the case she’s been using as a table, while Skye’s just putting the mag back in hers.

“Man, how are you faster at this?” Skye demands, playfully annoyed. “I’ve been learning this for _weeks_.”

Grant offers Jemma a hand up, and Skye points at them accusingly.

“I call favoritism!” she declares.

“Excuse me?” Jemma asks, looking a little offended.

“Ward puts more effort in with you!” Skye claims, jumping to her feet. “I’m just a rookie, and you’re his soulmate! Clearly you had an unfair advantage.”

“I did not,” Jemma defends. “Like you said, you’ve been learning this for weeks! It was my first lesson!”

“Well, you’re a genius,” Skye says reasonably. “Clearly, I never stood a chance.”

“That’s true,” Jemma concedes.

Grant looks between the two of them, a little confused. They _sound_ annoyed, but they’re grinning at each other like they’re best friends. He shakes his head.

“Time to go,” he reminds them. “We need to load up the SUV.”

“Oh, yes,” Jemma says. “Grant, could you get the black case over there? It’s a little heavy.”

“No problem,” he says. As he carries the black case over to the SUV the Minsk team brought for them, he keeps an eye on Jemma and Skye. They hold an easy conversation as they gather up their own cases, and Grant realizes, with a sinking feeling, that they’ve definitely become friends.

The problem with that is, he’s still not sure of Skye’s loyalties. She might honestly be dedicated to SHIELD, in which case her becoming friends with Jemma would be a good thing—one more well-trained agent (or she will be, when he’s done with her) with a personal investment in Jemma’s safety can only be of benefit. But if she’s not sincere in her dedication to SHIELD? If she’s playing them?

Jemma will be hurt if Skye’s running game on them. And, he realizes as Skye nudges Jemma playfully, she’ll be hurt if something happens to Skye. He’s been considering taking Skye out, removing her from the equation before she can become a threat, but that’s not possible now. Not if he wants Jemma to be happy. Can he risk her safety for the sake of her happiness?

Grant sighs to himself as he loads the last case into the SUV. If Skye’s genuine, then all of this worry is for nothing. Unfortunately, he can’t count on that. His luck is just not that good.

\---

The drive back to the Bus is long and passes mostly in silence. Skye does take the opportunity to update them on the broadcast she’d picked up on, how it ended up originating from Amador, some sort of live video feed which allowed them to see her approaching the van.

Aside from that, though, no one talks much. Jemma, Skye, and Fitz seem a little rattled, not that he can blame them. After all, the last time they were in a vehicle, it got flipped over. Grant, for his part, is trying to keep his temper. Now that he’s got nothing but empty road to distract him, he’s angry at Coulson. Coulson is obviously holding on to the idea that Amador can be saved, or something ridiculous like that, and his reluctance to bring in HQ on this meant that Jemma was in danger today.

Amador could have very easily killed them instead of just running them off the road, and he really can’t forgive that.

\---

When they get back to the Bus, May’s waiting for them on the catwalk. She’s hard to read on the best of days, but Grant’s pretty sure she’s as angry as he is. Melinda May’s personnel file identifies her as a protector, someone who takes full responsibility for the safety of her team. She can’t be too happy that Amador got so close to the untrained members of their team while May herself was hours away.

Grant has a feeling that May won’t be making a habit of staying with the Bus while the rest of them go into the field.

Once they’ve dropped all of the gear from the SUV in the lab, Coulson excuses himself to go update May. Grant thinks about going with him, trying to convince him that Amador’s beyond help and they need to take her down, but he’s not sure he can keep his temper. So he stays in the lab, hangs back in a corner as Jemma and Fitz unpack all of the cases.

Skye is fiddling with her laptop.

“You know,” she says suddenly. “I think I can recover the data signature of that encrypted broadcast.”

“The one she was watching you through?” he asks.

“Yeah, maybe we can use it to start watching back.”

 “How long?”

“Give me an hour.”

Grant makes good use of that hour. He, Jemma, and Fitz all go upstairs and eat—for once, he doesn’t even have to drag them, as they’re not really working on anything at the moment. After dinner, Fitz goes back down to the lab while Grant lingers in the lounge with Jemma. As expected, the red spot on her temple has bloomed into a bruise, and he can’t help frowning at it.

“Thank you,” Jemma says, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“For what?”

“I know you don’t enjoy bringing me into the field, and I can tell how much what happened today bothers you, but you’ve never put up a fuss about it. So, thank you. For not trying to keep me out of the field.”

He laughs a little under his breath and leans back against the couch. “I’ve definitely been tempted to just…lock you safely in the lab,” he admits. “But something tells me that wouldn’t stop you for long.”

“No,” she agrees. “It wouldn’t.”

She leans against him, and he lifts his arm so that she can settle more comfortably against his chest, then wraps it around her shoulders.

“I know it’s not easy for you,” she continues quietly. “But it’s not easy for me, either. Watching you throw yourself so willingly into danger…”

“There’s a reason soulmates aren’t supposed to go into the field together,” he reminds her. He toys with the ends of her hair. “It goes against our instincts to see each other going into danger without doing anything to stop it.”

Jemma sighs, and Grant hesitates before continuing.

“Coulson asked me earlier if I was glad he didn’t let me request a new assignment, after we met,” he tells her. “I told him I hadn’t decided, but the truth is…”

She twists to look up at him. “The truth is?”

“It probably makes me the most selfish man on the planet, but I’d rather have you with me. Even if it means you’re in danger, even if you’d be so much safer in a lab posting…I’m glad you’re here, where I can see you every day.”

Jemma gives him a soft smile. “That doesn’t make you selfish, Grant. It makes you human.”

She leans up and kisses him. It’s a soft kiss, comforting rather than intense, and they keep it short. Still, it is, as always, enough to get his blood thrumming. It’s amazing, the way she affects him.

“And I’m glad, too,” she says when she pulls away. “I like having you here, where we can spend time together.”

Before he can respond to that, the intercom clicks on. It’s Skye, requesting the team’s presence in the lab, and they immediately comply. Coulson and May are right on their heels as they go downstairs.

“Something’s wrong,” Skye is saying as they enter the lab. “It’s the same feed that was watching us from the van. Put it up on the big monitor?”

Fitz moves to do so, and they all gather around the holotable.

“Maybe the lens broke when the van rammed us?” Jemma suggests, looking at the loading screen.

“I hope she broke more than that,” Skye mutters. Grant completely agrees.

The video feed comes up on the monitor, and they all stare in confusion. It just looks like fogged up glass. Things become a little clearer when a hand appears in view, wiping the glass down, and they’re looking at video of Amador. She’s obviously looking in a mirror, which begs the question, where’s the camera?

As Coulson voices the question, Amador picks up a screwdriver and brings it up to her eye—brings it up to the camera. The camera is in her _eye_ , and Grant can’t help but wince. That’s just…gross.

The picture suddenly changes, and Fitz says, “Switches to backscatter when she closes her eyes.”

“You’re a robot,” Skye says to Grant. “Can you do that?”

Grant closes his eyes briefly, gathering his patience, then turns to Jemma and Fitz. “Who has tech like that?”

He doesn’t bother to listen to their response, since he already knows the answer. Cybertek. Seeing this feed, things have become a lot clearer. It’s obvious that Amador has one of the Cybertek eyes, which means that she’s under Garrett’s control. Her SHIELD file said that she doesn’t have any family, living or dead, and her soulmate was a SHIELD agent KIA two years before she was, so Garrett’s probably using the threat of the kill switch against her. The question is, what’s Garrett’s play? They’re not short on funding, as far as he knows, so why on earth is Amador stealing diamonds on their behalf?

When he tunes back in to the conversation around him, Coulson and May are arguing. Coulson still wants to handle this in-house, without involving HQ. May’s more concerned with the safety of the team, a concern Grant shares.

“Because we protect our own,” Coulson says to May.

“With all due respect, sir,” Grant interrupts. “She’s not one of our own.”

Skye interrupts the argument, drawing their attention back to the screen.

There’s no question of what Grant should do. As a deep cover operative, he has orders to act fully as a member of Coulson’s team, even if that means taking out one of Garrett’s assets. And, as Amador requests permission to sleep and the team realizes she’s being controlled, he knows that’s exactly what’s going to happen. There’s no way Coulson’s going to let this go. Not now.

So. He’ll be working to save Amador from his own operation. It would almost be funny, if it weren’t so annoying. He knows it won’t be easy.

Coulson decides they should keep watch on the feed, in case Amador looks at anything that might reveal her location, and May volunteers to take the first watch. Coulson seems to take it as a peace offering, but Grant suspects May’s just taking advantage of the opportunity. Regardless of Amador’s lack of culpability in her crimes, May obviously still views her as a threat. She’ll do her best to take Amador out before anything else happens.

This actually works in Grant’s favor, so he pretends not to pick up on May’s motives. They agree to three four-hour watches, one for each of the trained field agents, and Coulson volunteers for the second. Which means Grant can go to bed, so he doesn’t argue, even though he probably should. Middle watch is always the hardest—getting up, keeping watch, and then trying to get back to sleep after being on alert for so long—and it’s really his duty to take it, rather than let his commanding officer take on the job.

Still, it’s been a hell of a day, and he’s pretty much exhausted, so he lets Coulson have his way.

\---

It feels like only minutes after he lies down that Fitz is banging on his door.

“Ward! Ward, get up!”

He rolls out of bed and pulls the door open.

“What?” he asks, although he has a pretty good idea, judging by the panicked tone to Fitz’s voice.

“Agent May went after Amador,” Fitz tells him, already moving toward Jemma’s bunk. “We have to stop her. Agent Coulson’s waiting in the lab.”

He slides his door shut again, then quickly trades his pajama pants for his jeans. He grabs socks and a shirt out of his dresser, snatches up his shoes, and pulls the door back open. He puts the shirt on as he heads down to the lab. When he gets there, he finds Coulson pacing in front of the monitor.

“Your orders, sir?” Grant asks, taking a seat on one of the lab stools so that he can put his socks on.

“We have to go after May,” Coulson tells him. “Stop her before she can kill Amador.”

“As soon as Amador looks at us, whoever’s controlling her will know we’re involved,” he says. “And I was thinking, there has to be a reason Amador didn’t go to HQ for help after she had that eye stuck in her.”

Coulson pauses in his pacing. “You think, what? Some kind of failsafe?”

“It would explain why she’s still working for them, taking their orders,” he points out, standing and shoving his feet into his shoes. “She obviously has a lot of freedom, if she’s been running around stealing diamonds, but she still needs permission to sleep? It’s the only thing that fits.”

“You’re right,” Coulson says. “And that means that as soon as we bring Amador in…”

“They’ll kill her,” Grant finishes. Of course, this isn’t speculation for him. He knows it as a fact. But it’s a reasonable conclusion to come to, even without inside information, and he’s confident he would have been able to figure it out if he didn’t already know it. Which means he _has_ to give the information to Coulson, as part of his cover.

Fitz enters the lab, followed by Jemma and Skye.

“May went off the rails?” Skye asks Coulson, obviously shocked. Grant knows that Skye looks up to May, hence the tone.

“Looks like,” Coulson says. “Can you hack the feed, loop it so that whoever’s controlling Amador thinks she’s still sleeping?”

“I can try.”

“Do that,” Coulson orders, then turns to Fitz. “You were working on glasses with the same capability, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Fitz says, crossing to his work table. He holds up a pair of glasses. “These. Full backscatter capabilities, all you have to do is press the frame.”

“Is it possible to broadcast the feed from those glasses to whoever is controlling Amador?” Coulson asks.

“If Skye can hack their signal, sure,” Fitz says.

“Good,” Coulson says. “How about the night-night pistol you’ve been working on. Is it finished?”

“Yeah, it’s on the counter, there,” Fitz answers, gesturing vaguely at the counter. He’s preoccupied, fiddling with the glasses.

“Skye?”

“Yeah, I’m in,” Skye tells him. “Looping the current footage.”

“Great. So, here’s the plan. I’m going to take the night-night pistol, knock Amador out, and bring her back here. Amador got another assignment a few hours ago. Ward, you’re gonna put on the glasses and complete Amador’s assignment. We can’t let her handlers know anything’s up.”

Grant nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Simmons,” Coulson continues, turning to Jemma. “You’re going to remove Amador’s eye.”

“I—what?” Jemma asks. She looks a little sick at the mere suggestion. “Sir, I’m not a surgeon! And I’m  certainly not an ophthalmologist!”

“We’ll you’re the closest thing we’ve got,” Coulson tells her. “And if you don’t remove the eye, Amador’s handlers will use it to kill her as soon as they realize something’s wrong.”

Jemma wrings her hands a little.

“Simmons,” Coulson says. “Can you do this?”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Jemma promises. She still looks nervous, but her voice is steady.

“Good. Then let’s get to work.”

They need to get to Amador’s hotel in time to stop May from killing her—or her from killing May—so there’s no real time for Grant to encourage Jemma. He contents himself with a squeeze to her shoulder and a whispered, “You can do this.”

“Be careful,” she whispers back.

He nods, and then it’s time to go.

\---

In the morning, Grant sits parked outside the Toldorov building with Skye in the back seat. She needs to be on site in order to make the glasses wireless—something to do with localizing the feed—and Grant waits impatiently for her to finish.

He’s had no contact with Garrett since he started this assignment, so he has absolutely no idea what might be waiting for him inside the building. He’s looked over the information on the building that May downloaded, but at first glance it doesn’t look like it holds anything Garrett might want.

He’s walking in blind. He hates walking in blind.

“We wireless yet?” he asks Skye.

There’s a beep, and then she replies, “Yep. Ready to detach.”

She reaches forward to detach the wires from the glasses, and her fingers brush against the ticklish spot behind his right ear. He squirms. He can’t help it.

“ _Don’t_ look at me,” she says. “They need to think you’re her.”

He grunts.

“And, oh my god, super spy is ticklish.” The wires come off with a quiet snap, and she sits back.

He just knows Skye is going to use this knowledge against him, but he doesn’t have time to buy—or threaten—her silence. A message appears on the lens of the glasses.

LOCATION CONFIRMED. PROCEED TO DELTA 5.

“It would _suck_ to live like this, wondering if someone’s watching,” Skye says.

Grant ignores her. “Testing backscatter.” He presses the button on the frame, and looks _through_ the hood of the next car, then deactivates the backscatter.

“Good to go,” Skye says. She hands him the wireless receiver for the glasses, and he takes it without looking.

“Remember, I can’t look at you,” he tells her. “Much less help you.”

“Got it,” she says. “Don’t count on you for help.”

He nods and slides the receiver into his inside pocket, then gets out of the car. He takes a deep breath to center himself, then falls into line behind the other people headed into the building. He’s not armed for this mission, which is unfortunate, but they weren’t able to get the security specs on such short notice, so he can’t risk it.

“Fitz and Simmons are prepped for surgery,” Skye tells him as he enters the building. “It should be any minute now.”

Grant takes a deep breath. He hopes that Garrett remembers his own orders when he finds out about Grant’s involvement in freeing Amador from his control, but he’s not counting on it. He’s almost definitely going to face repercussions for this.

“Hey! Remember, you have man hands, so don't look when you scan the card,” Skye says.

“I know,” he mutters. He gives the guard a friendly smile as he scans in, uses it as an excuse to keep from looking, then continues on his way.

He proceeds through the building with no trouble, past Delta 2, 3, and 4. He has to tell Skye he doesn’t need her help more than once, but other than that, there’s no contact from the team. He hopes that means Amador’s surgery is going well, if only for Jemma’s sake.

When he reaches Delta 5, another message appears on the glasses as he looks through the window.

TARGET CONFIRMED. STAND BY.

He ducks out of view of the window as Skye asks, “What do they mean target?”

“It’s never good,” he responds quietly. “Especially for the target. Let’s hope it’s a knock out and not a kill.”

“You should get out of there,” she says.

“I’ve come this far. I’ll finish. Whatever it takes.”

He looks back through the window, and his instructions appear.

SEDUCE HIM.

He freezes. It’s not that he’s not capable of seducing a man. He’s better with women, but he’s seduced men before. It’s just that…it feels wrong. Seducing anyone seems like a horrible thing to do. It feels like even pretending to have any interest in anyone besides Jemma is a betrayal of her.

Which is, of course, ridiculous. He has a job to do, and he needs to do it, and that’s that. But he still finds himself hesitating. Also, on a more relevant level, Skye is watching this. If he seems too proficient at manipulating people, she might get suspicious. Although, if he seems too incompetent, she’ll use it against him, and he’s already given her too much ammunition for one day. Still, his mission is more important than his ego.

“Help,” he says.

“I’m sorry, did you say help?” Skye asks, gleefully smug. “Because a _minute_ ago, you said you didn’t want or need my help.”

“That was before they asked me to go all Mata Hari on this guy,” he whispers. He looks back through the window. “I’m just gonna knock him out.”

“Ward, wait,” she says. “We may need him to get to the next door. Remember, it said seduce, not kill.”

“I don’t think I’m his type,” he bites out. Which is a lie. He’s everyone’s type.

“Let me see,” she says. “Cheap haircut, five o’clock shadow. Nope. Odds are, you guys play for the same team. You’re gonna have to bromance him.”

It’s a good thing that the camera isn’t actually attached to his eyes, because he rolls them so hard he’d have given the handler motion sickness if it were.

“Talk sports, vodka, the Victorianov Secret catalog, be _friendly_ , Agent Ward. Can you be friendly?” she sighs, then mutters, “Please don’t die.”

He tips his head back for a moment, then enters the room. The guard immediately gets to his feet.

Grant decides not to try too hard. His overall cover is more important than this single op, so he’ll just have to hope he doesn’t need the man for whatever’s in the next room. He asks about the game, tries to spin a story about taking home a couple of girls, and doesn’t bother to give a decent excuse about having no ID. As expected, the guard attacks him, and Grant easily knocks him out.

He goes into the next room, where he finds two men sitting at typewriters, surrounded by walls full of equations and strange symbols. They look at him briefly, then go back to their work.

“What now?” Skye asks. “Are you supposed to grab one of these guys?”

He walks around the room, taking in the chalkboards full of equations. The one on the far wall, the one covered with symbols, holds his attention the longest. He’s never seen anything like it. As he looks at it, another message appears on his glasses.

MISSION COMPLETE. GOOD LUCK.

Good luck? That’s more than a little ominous. He remembers the order to seduce the guard and gets a bad feeling. Sure enough, when he leaves the room, he sees a countdown going on the guard’s computer.

“Figured out what I needed the guard for,” he tells Skye. “His password.”

“Maybe I can talk you through a hack,” she suggests. “Just give me a minute.”

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a minute. The timer reaches zero, and the alarm goes off. Shit. He bends down and takes the guard’s gun, then leaves the room at a run.

“Meet me on the south side of the building, ASAP,” he tells Skye.

He makes it through three hallways unnoticed, but then a guard comes around the corner. Grant doesn’t bother to hang around and see whether or not the guard finds him suspicious—he takes off at a run, and the guard follows.

He loses the guard easily enough, and quickly finds himself outside of the security office. He uses the backscatter on the glasses to shoot two of the guards inside through the wall, and is about to shoot the third when his comm activates.

“Ward?” It’s Fitz.

“What?” he demands.

“You sound winded,” Fitz notes. “Is this a bad time?”

Fitz is important to Jemma, Grant reminds himself. It will upset Jemma if he’s mean to Fitz.

“Little bit,” he says, forcing himself to sound calm.

“Well, not so good for me, either, considering I'm holding a still-attached prosthetic eye that could explode at any second!” Fitz hisses.

He really isn’t in the mood to talk Fitz through diffusing an explosive, but there’s a 99.9 percent chance that Jemma is standing right next to him, and he won’t risk Fitz doing something wrong and _killing_ her.

“Are the wires exposed or shielded?” he asks, and turns a corner. Then he freezes, because he’s looking straight into a mirror. “Cut it _now_. Cut the wires _now_!”

He doesn’t hear anything else from Fitz, so he has to assume that everything’s fine. If it’s not…

He shakes the thought off and tells Skye, “Coming your way.”

“I don’t know what that _means_ ,” she complains.

He’s not really sure what she finds confusing about it, but he has no time to ask. A guard appears behind him, and Grant heads for the nearest window. He really hopes he timed this right, and that Skye didn’t dawdle in the parking lot, and that he has the right window, or else this is really going to hurt.

He shoots the window to weaken the glass, then leaps through it.

It is the right window; he lands on an awning, runs across a storage container, and jumps down to the ground just as Skye drives up. He slides into the passenger seat, hiding his relief.

“Let’s go,” he says, and she nods.

They make it out of the parking lot, and he can’t wait any longer.

“Fitz get the eye diffused okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, they got it,” Skye says, then gives him a look. “Aww, were you worried about Simmons? You were, weren’t you? Admit it!”

“Of course I was,” he says, incredulous. “She’s my soulmate and she was extracting a possible explosive from Amador’s _eye_. How could that _not_ worry me?”

Skye looks at him, wide eyed, then turns back to the road. “I knew you cared, I just…didn’t expect you to admit it. Wow.”

He rolls his eyes. She really does think he’s a robot, doesn’t she? Apparently he didn’t do as good a job humanizing himself as he thought. Might as well take the opportunity to rectify that—they’ve got a bit of a drive back to the Bus.

“There’s no shame in admitting I care about my soulmate,” he tells her.

“Yeah, but you’re one of those tough-guy types,” she protests. “Most of the guys like you I’ve known think it’s weak to admit they care about people.”

He scoffs. “What’s _weak_ is being too embarrassed to admit your feelings—to let the people you care about know that you do.”

“Huh,” she says.

“I don’t go around shouting from the rooftops that Jemma’s my soulmate,” he continues. “That would be stupid, and it could put her at risk, because I’ve got my fair share of enemies. But everyone on the team knows. There’s no need to hide it around you guys.”

“Wow, Ward, that’s…really sweet.”

“It’s the truth,” he says with a shrug.

Skye taps her fingers on the steering wheel. “So…since I’ve got you in a sharing mood. Does it bother you, Fitz and Simmons being so close?”

First Coulson, now her. He’s going to get a complex or something, at this rate. He just hopes May doesn’t ask. That would be a little _too_ weird, even for Coulson’s circus of a team.

“It did at first,” he admits. Jealousy’s a very human emotion, and one she’s likely to have experience with, herself. It’s likely to increase her sympathy for him. “It’s only natural, isn’t it? They can practically read each other’s minds.”

“But?”

“But Fitz is important to Jemma. They’re like siblings. They’ve been at each other’s sides since their days in the Academy, and she’s dependent on him. I’m glad she has him, that she’s had his support.”

“Okay, you need to stop,” Skye says, holding a hand up. “You’re freaking me out with the genuine emotions here, Ward.”

He smiles to himself. Mission accomplished.

\---

When they get back to the Bus, Grant immediately goes upstairs to change out of the cheap suit he’s wearing. After a moment of debate, he puts on his workout clothes. He’s had a long day, but he had to skip his morning workout in order to pretend to be Amador, and he’s not willing to skip his evening workout, as well. He thinks about dragging Skye to her evening training, but to be honest, he’s spent enough time with her for one day. He’ll just have her make it up tomorrow.

He heads down to the cargo bay, and he’s barely started his first set of push-ups when Jemma comes out of the lab and takes a seat on the stairs. He pauses to look up at her.

“I missed our usual morning conversation,” she says. “I thought perhaps we could make it up now?”

“Sounds good,” he tells her, returning to his push-ups. “I spoke last yesterday. Your turn.”

After all these weeks, they’ve pretty much run out of questions to ask each other. God knows he’s run through all of the ‘get to know your soulmate’ lists he found on Google. So now, they mostly just take turns talking about whatever comes to mind. It’s harder for him than it is for Jemma, so sometimes she has to prompt him, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Skye told me what you said,” she says after a moment. “About being happy that I had Fitz to support me?”

Wow. They’ve been back on the Bus for less than ten minutes. Skye must have gone straight to Jemma as soon as they got back.

“Did she?” he asks neutrally.

“Yes,” Jemma says. “And I wanted to thank you for that. And for…”

He looks up, concerned, as she trails off. She shakes her head at him, so he looks back down and keeps going.

She takes a deep breath and starts again. “Over the years, I’ve heard from…rather a lot of people, that my soulmate would never tolerate how close I am to Fitz. People said it all the time. As soon as they found out that Fitz and I weren’t soulmates, they immediately told me that I should enjoy my friendship with him whilst I could, because my soulmate would never stand for it. They meant well, I think, or at least most of them did, but after a while it did start to get to me.”

He can hear her tapping her nails against the railing, the way she does when she’s considering how to word something, and he takes the chance to absorb what she’s said. He thinks of Coulson and Skye both mentioning it, how annoyed he was to hear it a second time, and contemplates how annoyed he would be if he heard that from everyone he met.

“He’s never said, but I think Fitz has heard the same thing fairly often. Possibly even more than I have. I know he’s been a little…sharp with you. I believe that, at least subconsciously, he’s trying to provoke you.”

“Provoke me?” he echoes.

“Yes, well, it’s occurred to me that perhaps Fitz is hoping that if he pushes you far enough, you’ll attempt to make me distance myself from him. And of course Fitz knows that I would never do such a thing, and I wouldn’t look kindly on you asking. So…”

“You think he’s hoping that if he annoys me enough, I’ll sabotage our relationship?” he asks. He has to admit it’s an impressively gutsy move. Fitz must have a lot of confidence in his relationship with Jemma to expect her to choose him over her soulmate.

“Subconsciously,” Jemma clarifies. “I don’t know that he even realizes he’s doing it. But you’ve been remarkably patient with him, so I wanted to thank you for that.”

Finished with his push-ups, Grant sits back on his heels.

“I wasn’t lying,” he tells her. “I meant what I said to Skye. I’m glad you’ve had someone to support you. I’m glad you’ve had someone you can trust as much as Fitz. It makes me happy, that you haven’t been alone.”

For a moment, he considers telling her how he used to think about it, when he was younger. How he used to wish that his soulmate had a loving, supportive family—family she could count on. He decides not to. Their relationship is still in its early stages, and he doesn’t want to scare her off.

“Fitz can be annoying,” he says instead. “He’s definitely done his best to get on my nerves. But I know how much he means to you. I would never want you to lose that.”

Jemma beams at him. “Thank you, Grant.”

He stands, taking his gloves from the roof of the SUV and pulling them on. He has a feeling he’s going to regret this next offer, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s honestly not that much.

“Maybe Fitz wouldn’t worry so much about it if I…tried to get along with him better,” he suggests. “I’ll make an effort.”

“You’d really do that?” Jemma asks, her eyes wide.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll…challenge him to a game of poker. Or something.”

Jemma gets to her feet, walks around the punching bag, and hugs him.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

He hugs her back and presses a kiss to her hair. It’s probably going to be an incredibly annoying process, and he’s sure he’ll need all of his training to keep his cool, but, well. He would do worse to keep Jemma happy.

He has a sinking feeling that, in the future, he will. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I've gotten a few messages asking if shineyma on tumblr is me, and yes, it is! If you've got questions, comments, or just wanna bug me about when I'm going to update next, you're welcome to drop by. My ask box is always open. :)


	5. Girl in the Flower Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pyrokinetic man is abducted after the Rising Tide hacks SHIELD. Skye is, obviously, a suspect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much for the comments, bookmarks, and kudos! It really means a lot, and it helps to know what's working for people.
> 
> Thank you for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

It’s not something anyone would guess by looking at him, but Grant _loves_ board games. Of course, his family wasn’t exactly the type for family game nights, so he didn’t discover this love until he was sixteen.

It was actually at his military school that he first learned to play board games. Every weekday, they had a “no homework” study hall—a specific time set aside for cadets to goof off, since the rest of their schedule was so demanding—but usually, everyone was so exhausted from their various drills and classes that they didn’t feel like doing anything that required movement. So every study hall room was equipped with at least three different board games, and it only took a week for Grant to become completely addicted.

He finds himself telling Jemma about this one morning, sparked by a story she’s just told him of always being forced to play Scrabble with a handicap (apparently, she’s only allowed to play every other turn, because otherwise she’ll just completely dominate the game).

“Of course, there hasn’t been much opportunity for board games since I left military school,” he’s telling her as he finishes his sit-ups. “Not a lot of call for Monopoly in the field.”

“No, I imagine not,” she agrees. “Which is your favorite?”

“Battleship,” he tells her as he stands, finished with his work out. Skye will be down any minute. “It’s almost entirely luck, and games that need strategy always felt too much like work after hours of drills.”

“Oh, that makes sense. I wouldn’t have thought of that,” Jemma comments. She looks a little distracted, and he’s about to ask her if anything is wrong when Skye comes down the stairs at a run.

“Not late!” she cheers. She squeezes past Jemma and hits the cargo bay floor at the same time that his watch beeps the hour. “Ha!”

Jemma laughs and shakes her head. “Good luck,” she tells him.

“Yeah,” he says, watching Skye do a little dance around the punching bag. “Pretty sure I’m gonna need it.”

She nods in agreement, then leaves. Strangely enough, she goes through the door leading to the storage area, rather than up the stairs, but he doesn’t give it much thought, distracted by Skye’s continuing dance.

“Okay, stop,” he tells her. “Is being on time really such a victory? That’s a little sad.”

“No, the _victory_ is that I don’t have to do extra push-ups. I hate push-ups, Ward. I _hate_ them.”

“I know,” he says. Obviously, or else he wouldn’t use them as a deterrent against tardiness. “But you still have to do some. On the floor, let’s go.”

Skye still whines her way through training, but at least she’s trying now. It makes the process a lot less aggravating when he doesn’t have to tell her to do everything five times, so he’s in a pretty good mood once her training is over and he follows her upstairs.

Shower facilities on the Bus are surprisingly generous. There are actually two showers, one for the men and one for the women, and Grant says a silent thank you to Director Fury for that every morning, as it means he doesn’t have to take turns with Skye.

He goes to his bunk to pick up his shower kit and his clothes, but pauses when he sees a box on his bed. It definitely wasn’t there when he went downstairs, so he approaches it cautiously. Since they’re in flight, only a member of the team could have gotten into his bunk, but that’s no reason to be unwary.

He relaxes when he’s close enough to read the box, because there’s a note in Jemma’s handwriting on top of it.

_There’s a whole chest of these in storage closet 2A. We found them last week. Perhaps, since your bonding with Fitz went so well, you could take a turn with Skye?_

He frowns at the note in confusion, then opens the plain blue box. He’s stunned to find a couple of Battleship cases, along with several plastic bags, full of ships and pegs, inside. He laughs a little to himself, touched and kind of impressed. Jemma gave absolutely nothing away—he thought her question about his favorite board game was simple curiosity, nothing more.

He shakes his head and goes to take a shower. He’ll give Jemma’s suggestion a try and challenge Skye to a game after breakfast. Actually, maybe he’ll tell her it’s a part of her instruction. He has a feeling her face will be pretty priceless when he pulls out a board game in the name of training.

\---

An hour later, he and Skye are in the middle of a game which he is miserably losing. Still, he’s not too bothered by it. For one thing, he was right and Skye’s face was hilarious. For another, he really is doing his best to get along with her, and it seems to be working. He can admit, if only to himself, that Skye is actually kind of amusing, when she’s not doing her best to be annoying.

At the moment, she’s commenting on how nice it is to take a break.

“Well, you deserve a break,” he admits. “I gotta give Coulson credit. I never would have pegged an ex-Rising Tide hacker as a good fit, but…you’re picking things up pretty fast.”

It’s an effective bit of flattery, but it’s also true. He still might not be sure of her motives, but he can’t deny that she’s been a big help to the team.

“Did you just…give me a compliment?” Skye asks, wide-eyed and gleeful.

“I—no—made a comment,” he instantly denies. It wouldn’t do to be too friendly.

“A _kind_ one,” she says. “Did it physically hurt to do that? Do you need an ice pack?”

He laughs a bit, and Skye stares.

“ _Wow_ , a compliment and a smile.”

“Comment,” he corrects.

“I don’t wanna ruin the moment, but I’m gonna have to respond with…G4.”

Damn it.

“Say it, Ward,” Skye says, grinning. She leans forward. “Say it.”

“You sank my battleship,” he grounds out.

She laughs gleefully. “Yes!”

“All right, best two out of three,” he suggests, leaning forward to clear his board.

“I beat you,” she sings.

“Best two out of three,” he repeats.

“Best I just _won_ out of nothing!”

He has a feeling he’s going to regret this game. A lot. He’s still trying to convince her to have a rematch when an alarm starts blaring, and they look towards the briefing room, where the SHIELD logo on the screen has turned red.

“Ooh, another case,” Skye says, scrambling out of her seat. “Maybe I should take the lead on this one, since I just _beat you_.”

He groans and follows her into the briefing room. Yeah. He’s definitely going to regret losing that game.

\---

Their new assignment is to investigate the disappearance of Chan Ho Yin, a pyrokinetic from Hong Kong. As they wait to Skype with Chan’s case agent, they explain the Index to Skye. She’s fascinated and a little creeped out—and, of course, she makes a joke. She actually almost makes him laugh, with some unexpected help from Coulson, whose silence on the issue of body probes manages to completely freak out Fitz.

The video feed from Hong Kong pops up on the screen, and May introduces Agent Kwan, Chan’s case agent. He explains that Chan has a habit of violating his Index agreement, but this time it looks like he’s been taken—presumably by professionals, since all they’ve found in the way of evidence is fireproof clothing.

“So whoever took him knew about his power,” Grant concludes.

“Yes, and we think we know why,” Kwan says. “Over the last few days, Tech division discovered a crack into our data stream. It's the same cyber punks who hacked us before. Somehow they got in again.”

Grant has a feeling he knows where this is going, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“It’s the Rising Tide,” Kwan concludes.

Yeah, that’s pretty much what he thought. They all turn to look at Skye, and there’s a long moment of silence.

“Agent Kwan,” Coulson finally says, turning back to the screen. “Please send us the results of your investigation of the scene. We’ll be in touch.”

“Of course,” Kwan says.

After brief goodbyes, May disconnects the feed. There’s obvious tension in the room, all of them suspicious but no one willing to say anything. Grant, for his part, isn’t totally convinced of Skye’s guilt. For one thing, her fascination and shock at the information about the Index was definitely genuine. If she’d hacked SHIELD Hong Kong, she’d already know about it. For another, he’s been keeping a pretty close eye on her, for this exact reason. He doesn’t know that she’s had the opportunity to hack SHIELD right under their noses.

“Skye. My office,” Coulson orders, then leaves the briefing room.

Skye takes a deep breath and follows. Grant, after a moment of hesitation, tags along. She doesn’t say anything. Neither does Coulson, when they enter his office. Instead, he just stares Skye down.

Grant finds himself in the strange position of defending Skye. Not that Coulson ever actually makes any accusation, but it’s obvious he’s suspicious—and for good reason. They really are all thinking it. Still, Grant actually does believe that Skye’s innocent, and she’s their best chance for tracking down the real hacker quickly.

Coulson seems to agree.

“Dig up something, and fast,” he orders Skye. “The longer Mr. Chan’s missing, the more danger he’s in.”

Skye nods, and Coulson dismisses her to begin searching for the hacker. Then he turns to Grant.

“That was unexpected,” he says blandly.

“The Rising Tide hacking SHIELD?” Grant asks, though he knows that’s not what Coulson’s talking about.

“No. You sticking up for Skye. Last I checked, you didn’t trust her.”

“Still don’t, sir,” Grant assures him. “I don’t trust her motives for joining up, and I certainly don’t trust her to choose us over a fellow member of the Rising Tide. I just don’t think she was the one to perpetrate this specific hack.”

“Fair enough,” Coulson says. “In any case, we’ll be keeping a close eye on her for this one.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agrees.

Effectively dismissed, he leaves Coulson’s office and heads back downstairs. Skye’s in the briefing room, bent over the table computer, and Jemma and Fitz are standing on either side of her, presumably keeping an eye on her activity. May is standing in the other corner, obviously on alert. He considers joining them, but he knows he’d be no help there, so instead he busies himself with cleaning up the game of Battleship, which he and Skye left out on the table in their rush to get to the briefing.

He takes the box back to his room, putting it in the bottom of his closet for lack of a better place. The bunks don’t have much in the way of storage space—one of the perils of living on an airplane.

With that done, he goes back to the briefing room and takes a spot leaning against the table next to Jemma. She gives him a little smile, and he nudges her, making her smile widen a bit. He can tell she’s rattled by the suspicion against Skye. They’ve become good friends, and if it turns out Skye’s involved in Chan’s kidnapping, Jemma will be heartbroken.

It’s awkward, the five of them just standing around the table, mostly in silence. Jemma and Fitz keep close watch on Skye’s progress, and occasionally they make comments on what she’s doing, but all of it goes over his head. He takes comfort in the fact that Jemma and Fitz will be able to catch Skye if she tries anything, but honestly, he’s not expecting her to. Not yet.

“How close are we?” Coulson asks when he enters the briefing room, a good thirty minutes later.

Fitz says something, which Jemma picks up and continues, and Fitz concludes with, “Bob’s your uncle.”

“You get _any_ of that?” Coulson asks Grant.

“Only the uncle part,” he answers, entirely honest. In his defense, computer science is basically the complete opposite of his thing.

“We got our origin,” Skye says as her tablet beeps. “Austin, Texas.”

“You got a name?” Coulson asks.

She doesn’t, but she manages to use credit card information from the café to trace the hack to a known hacker, Miles Lydon.

“Not Skye,” Fitz comments. “That’s to all of our relief.”

Not exactly, Grant notes. Skye doesn’t look very happy, which is strange, considering her name’s just been cleared.

“You know him?” Coulson asks.

“Every hacker in the world knows him,” Skye says with a tight smile.

“Not just the hacker world,” Jemma corrects. “He infiltrated the _Kremlin_.”

“Yeah, the picture of Putin shirtless on horseback, that was his hack,” Fitz agrees.

“It was also his hack that got Chan kidnapped,” Grant points out.

Coulson orders May to set a course for Austin so that they can bring in Lydon, and Skye’s reaction to those orders makes it even more obvious that something’s up here. She’s definitely got some sort of connection to Lydon. But is he just a fellow member of the Rising Tide? Or something more?

They’re a few hours from Austin, so after ordering Skye to put together a list of other places Lydon frequents from his credit card statement, Coulson ends the briefing and dismisses them. May follows Coulson out of the room, and Grant has a feeling they’ve picked up on Skye’s hesitation, as well. They’ll plan around it, he’s sure.

In the meantime, he snags Jemma in the lounge before she can go back down to the lab.

“Thank you,” he says to her. “For, uh, Battleship.”

“You’re welcome,” she says brightly. Then she wilts a little. “I suppose the timing could have been better, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I pushed you to play with Skye, to—to _bond_ with her like you did Fitz, and then this happens.”

“I don’t think a friendly suggestion you didn’t even make in person counts as pushing,” he muses. “And, hey, Skye didn’t hack SHIELD.”

“But she didn’t look very happy to be proven innocent, did she?” Jemma points out.

“No,” he agrees. He’s surprised, and honestly a little proud, that she noticed. It’s not easy for someone like Jemma to be suspicious of her friends, so it would be understandable if she just brushed the whole topic away, once Skye’s innocence was proven. He hates the sadness he can see in her face, so he changes the subject. “But back to my original point, I’m impressed. I had no idea you were up to anything when you asked me which game was my favorite.”

She brightens. “Really? Oh, good. Deception isn’t my strong suit, but I thought I’d managed well this morning.”

“You did,” he assures her. He tucks some of her hair behind her ear, lets his fingers linger on her cheek for a moment before he drops his hand. “I had no idea.”

“Excellent,” she says with a little clap. “And perhaps once we’ve found Mr. Chan, you and I could play? I’ve never actually played Battleship, so you’ll have to show me how, but…”

“I’d like that,” he says honestly. He glances at the briefing room, where Skye is still standing at the table. “But in the meantime, we’ve got some work to do.”

“Yes, we do,” Jemma says. “So I suppose I’ll see you in Austin, then.”

“In Austin,” he agrees. He watches her go, then heads for Coulson’s office. There’s no way it’s an accident that Skye’s been left alone in the briefing room, which means Coulson has a plan. Grant needs to know what that plan is so that he can determine whether he needs one of his own.

He doesn’t _think_ that Skye has malicious intentions. Even if she’s playing them—likely, given her attitude to the discovery of Lydon’s identity—he doesn’t think she intends to cause them any harm. But he’s not willing to risk Jemma’s safety on what he _thinks_ Skye intends.

After all, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Grant knows that better than anyone.

\---

Once they land in Austin, Coulson outlines the plan in the briefing room. Skye will go to the café Lydon used to hack SHIELD  Hong Kong. If he’s there, she’ll alert the rest of them and keep an eye on him until they arrive to arrest him. If he’s not there, she’ll pose as a friend who’s looking for him and find out if he’s been there recently.

Grant, meanwhile, will be going to the next likely place to find Lydon—a coffeehouse a few blocks away. His credit card is charged there nearly every day, so it seems like a safe bet. Coulson will be waiting in the SUV on a nearby street, in case Lydon tries to run. Jemma and Fitz will remain on the Bus, as they’re not trained to apprehend suspects, and might do more harm than good.

The rest of the team is told that May will be checking out another one of the locations on the list of places Lydon frequents, but she’ll actually be hanging back and trailing Skye, just in case. The three of them all agreed that until they leave Austin with Lydon in custody, Skye should be considered just as much of a suspect as he is. Her reaction to discovering that he was behind the hack is enough cause for concern.

\---

The coffeehouse is crowded enough that Grant decides not to go in. There’s no room to maneuver in there at all, and if he lets himself get trapped by the crowd in there, he could very easily lose Lydon—if he is inside, that is. So instead, he decides to linger in the street outside and keep watch on the door.

“Just left the café where Miles logged in,” Skye reports. “Cashier says she hasn’t seen him in over a week.”

Grant files away the first-name reference to Lydon as a man exits the coffeehouse. It may be Lydon—coloring is right, as is height and build, but he can’t get a good look at the man’s face, so he can’t be sure.

“I may have eyes on him,” he says into his comm. He pretends to be interested in a sign advertising an upcoming music festival, and watches from his peripheral vision as the man looks around. It’s definitely Lydon, and he seems to freeze when he sees Grant. Grant makes eye contact, and Lydon takes off at once.

Not a good sign, he notes as he gives chase. There’s nothing that should set Grant apart from any other man on the street, and as far as they know, Lydon isn’t aware that anyone’s after him.  Things aren’t looking good for Skye.

“I’ve been made,” he reports as he dodges pedestrians. “Heading east on Fifth Street.”

The crowd slows him down too much, and he reaches the corner to see Lydon getting into a vehicle.

“Target is now in a silver Jetta,” he announces as Lydon drives away.

“I got him,” Coulson says, and the SUV takes off after the Jetta.

There’s nothing else for Grant to do here. Luckily, the SHIELD base just outside of the city was happy enough to loan the team one of their fleet vehicles, which Coulson is driving, so he’s not stranded here until Coulson comes back. He heads for the Bus’ SUV and is just buckling his seatbelt when Coulson reports in.

“I lost him,” Coulson says. “He somehow managed to switch all of the lights to green.”

“What are your orders, sir?” Grant asks.

“We all have copies of the list of Lydon’s frequent stops,” Coulson says. “Pick a location and check it out. Maintain radio silence—only activate the comms if you find him. He was obviously expecting us, and it’s possible he’s somehow monitoring our communication.”

Grant figures that Coulson doesn’t believe that any more than he does. It’s incredibly likely that Lydon knew they were coming because Skye tipped him off. They’d been expecting it—had actually deliberately given Skye the chance, by leaving her alone after the initial briefing en route to Texas. Letting Skye go to Lydon takes care of two birds with one stone. They find Lydon, and they have proof of Skye’s intentions.

Of course, there’s a chance that she’s not involved in this at all—that Lydon really was monitoring their comms, that maybe he found out about them hacking his credit card statement and was keeping an eye out for unusual activity—but Grant wouldn’t bet on it. He’s been suspicious of Skye since day one, and he’s pretty sure he’s about to be proven right.

Sure enough, it’s not even half an hour later that he gets a text from May.

_Skye’s at Lydon’s apartment with him_ , the text says. _She tipped him off_.

A second later, he gets another text, this one from Coulson.

_Go get FitzSimmons and meet us at Lydon’s place._

He texts back a simple _Wilco_ and starts the car, heading for the private airstrip they landed at. As he drives, he finds himself musing over what this development means. He’s honestly disappointed. From a tactical standpoint, Skye has been a lot of help to the team, and it won’t be easy to find a suitable replacement in SHIELD communications. On a personal level, she and Jemma have become very good friends, and Jemma will be upset by this. Even Grant had found himself starting to warm up to Skye.

So while he’s not surprised by this development, he’s also not pleased.

When he reaches the hangar, he finds Jemma and Fitz waiting outside with a black duffle bag. He’s barely pulled to a stop when they’re climbing into the car, Jemma into the passenger seat and Fitz in the back with the duffle.

“Agent Coulson texted us,” Jemma offers by way of explanation.

“But there must be some mistake,” Fitz says as Grant pulls away from the hanger. “Skye’s working with Lydon?”

“I don’t know that she was working with him,” Grant corrects. “She tipped him off that we were after him, but that doesn’t mean she was involved in his hack.”

Fitz doesn’t look placated, but he doesn’t speak again. None of them do. The ride to Lydon’s apartment passes in complete silence. Grant occasionally glances at Jemma, but he can’t tell what she’s thinking. She’s wearing a little frown, picking at the knee of her jeans, but she doesn’t look sad or angry. Just thoughtful.

They’re just pulling into the parking lot when his comm activates.

“You can come up now,” May says. “Now that Skye and her friend are dressed.”

Grant shakes his head. That clears up some of Skye’s motivation, but it certainly doesn’t make things better.

“What?” Jemma asks, seeing the look on his face. She and Fitz aren’t on comms, so they won’t have heard what he just did.

“Sounds like Skye and Lydon were busy when Coulson got here,” he tells her. “May had to wait for them to get dressed.”

Jemma sighs and gets out of the car. Grant and Fitz silently do the same, and Grant leads the way upstairs to Lydon’s apartment. Inside, they find Skye sitting on the couch while Coulson rifles through a bookcase. May is in the next room with a handcuffed Lydon.

“FitzSimmons, get what you can off of the computer,” Coulson orders, motioning to the desk. “Ward, take a look around, see if you can find anything about the information Lydon took.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agrees, and moves to do just that.

He’s not particularly careful as he rifles through drawers and pulls things off of shelves. Maybe it’s petty of him, but he finds it makes him feel a little better to make a mess of Lydon’s things. As he does so, he sees May close the doors to the bedroom, and Coulson begins to question Skye.

Grant listens with half an ear, and it’s about what he expected. Skye and Lydon are old friends, she tipped him off because she owes him, and according to her own questioning of him, Lydon’s a dead end. He’s a little amazed that she honestly seems to think they’ll take her word for that.

There’s nothing in the kitchen, so Grant crosses the room to look through the shelves near the desk. Jemma and Fitz are attempting to rationalize Skye’s actions as they go download Lydon’s files onto a portable hard drive.

“We’ve been through so much together, and she didn’t even tell us that she…has a guy,” Fitz says to Jemma. It’s obvious he’s jealous, but it’s also obvious that he’s genuinely hurt, and Grant can’t help but pity him a little.

He knows, from both Fitz’s file and from what Jemma’s told him, that Fitz’s timer has always been blank. It’s likely that his soulmate, whoever he or she may be, lives in a part of the world that doesn’t use timers. Which means his chances of ever finding her are pretty small—although, granted, working on this team increases them a little, since they’re making a habit of globe-trotting. So it’s natural that Fitz would be interested in Skye, someone who doesn’t have a timer and never will, and is therefore just as unlikely to find her soulmate. The two of them have, over the last few weeks, bonded over that, and evidence of Skye’s shared bond with someone else is obviously painful for Fitz.

“Well, who knows what they’ve been through together?” Jemma asks reasonably.

It’s not a surprise that she’s slower to condemn Skye than the rest of them. One of Jemma’s (many, many) good qualities is her ability to see the best in people. He just hopes, for her sake, that she’ll be proven right in this case.

Coulson knocks a few books off of the bookcase and then goes to the bedroom and opens the doors.

“Anything?” he asks May. The response is obviously negative, because he orders, “Gather all the evidence and secure the prisoners. We got what we were looking for here. We’re going to Hong Kong.”

Grant tosses down the file he’s been looking through—nothing worthwhile—and walks over to the couch, pulling out his handcuffs as he does.

“I’m so sorry, Ward,” Skye tells him. “This is not what it looks—”

“Hands,” he interrupts. When she holds them up, he locks the cuffs around her wrists. “Now get up.”

He doesn’t bother to keep an eye on her as he turns away. He knows she won’t be trying anything. And honestly, even if she does, there’s no way she can take him out. Skye’s not a threat to him. Not physically, anyway. But Jemma’s continued reluctance to view Skye as a threat at all (as evidenced by her kindness in pointing out that Skye missed a button) could be a problem.

He doesn’t want her to become suspicious and jaded like him. But he worries that she’s going to get hurt, giving Skye a second chance. If this incident has taught them anything, it’s that Skye’s first loyalty is not to SHIELD. And that means she can’t be trusted, no matter what her reasons.

\---

Back on the Bus, Skye and Lydon are deposited in the Cage. Grant keeps an eye on the security feed from the briefing room while Jemma and Fitz go through everything they took from Lydon’s apartment. After a while, he has to mute the feed, because Lydon is really getting on his nerves.

“Guy’s hiding behind platitudes,” he says, turning away from the feed to stand next to Jemma. “He’s dirty. I can feel it.”

“Scrubbed clean, actually,” Jemma corrects with an unhappy frown. She goes on to explain that he has no documented background, his apartment’s under an alias, and his only online activity is some sort of game.

“Keep looking,” he tells her. “There’s gotta be something.”

Fifteen minutes later, Fitz makes a triumphant noise. “Got something here. Look.”

Jemma leans over his shoulder. “Deposit slips?”

“A million dollars all together,” Fitz tells her. “That’s suspicious, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Grant agrees. He takes the envelope from Fitz and slides the deposit slips back in. “It also might be just what we need to get some answers. Nice work, Fitz.”

Fitz gives him a half-pleased, half-wary look. It’s a familiar sight these days—Grant’s efforts to be nicer to him are getting mixed results, as Fitz can’t seem to decide whether he should be appreciative or paranoid about it. It’s honestly pretty hilarious, so Grant doesn’t mind the suspicion.

“I’ll go see what Lydon has to say about this,” Grant says.

“I’ll alert Agent Coulson,” Jemma volunteers.

“And I’ll…keep looking through this mess,” Fitz concludes glumly.

Grant claps him on the shoulder (earning another one of those looks) and heads for the Cage. He’s definitely going to enjoy this.

In the Cage, Skye and Lydon are sitting in silence, and Skye straightens when Grant walks in. He ignores her and looks at Lydon.

“She’s been defending you,” he says. “Saying you’re a stand-up guy. So I’m gonna give you a chance.” He drops the envelope with the deposit slips on the table. “You wanna tell her? Or should I?”

Lydon gives him a dirty look. “I don’t have to listen to you—”

“There goes your chance,” Grant interrupts. He picks up the envelope and turns to Skye, begins to lay out the deposit slips as he speaks. “Your boyfriend here made a few deposits in the days following the leak. All said, it’s about a million dollars.”

“ _What_?” Skye asks.

“Real stand-up guy,” Grant says.

“I can explain—” Lydon begins.

“Did you _sell_ information?” Skye demands. “Miles. Yes or no? _Did you_?”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, you’re _so dead_!” she shouts, trying to get across the table but stopped by her handcuffs. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“It was a million dollars,” Lydon says. “A million dollars. It would change my life. Our lives. And that woman was harmless, I looked into it.”

Grant almost rolls his eyes. He did it for love? Really? That’s what he’s going with?

“No one with good intentions pays that kind of money for information,” Skye points out, clearly furious. “Did you _ever_ think about that?”

“Of course I did, I never would’ve done it if I thought—”

“Who’s the woman you referred to?” Grant interrupts. He’s gotten what he wanted out of the revelation—Skye’s honest reaction, which is enough to convince him she really had no idea—and now he needs to find out what this asshole knows so they can dump him in a hole somewhere.

“A fan of the Rising Tide, some rich girl in a flower dress. She knew all about me, said I had a gift. She thought people like us…deserved more.”

“Oh, you deserve more,” Skye agrees. He has to admit it’s satisfying to see her so thoroughly disillusioned, after the way she defended the guy earlier.

“She pointed me to a Chinese SHIELD feed, wanted me to crack it,” Lydon continues.

“You thought that was harmless?” Grant asks. Seriously, what is with these activist types? Do they think SHIELD keeps secrets because, what, they get a kick out of it? Grant hasn’t forgotten that the Rising Tide is the reason his mission in Paris went FUBAR, and he would’ve thought he couldn’t hate them more, but…wow.

“I checked the data stream, it didn’t seem like anything you and I hadn’t already put out there, Skye,” Lydon says, looking beseechingly at her. “And I traced the account where the money came from to make sure it wasn’t some evil corporation. It was just an eco-research lab, otherwise I would never have—”

“Ecological research?” Grant asks, leaning against the table. That’s an interesting front.

“Yeah, insects,” Lydon says. “Some study with centipedes.”

…Shit.

“What’s more harmless than that?” Lydon continues, as Grant and Skye exchange a dark look.

This explains a lot. Grant would really prefer not to be going up against Garrett’s organization— _his_ organization—again, but. Well. There’s no helping it.

Still, it’s a good thing he’s so well-trained, or there’s no way he’d be able to suppress the urge to beat his head against the wall. _Why_ do they keep coming across Garrett’s assets? Of all the SHIELD teams in the world, why this one?

“What?” Lydon asks, looking between them. “What did I say?”

Grant doesn’t bother to answer. He pushes off the table and leaves the Cage.

Back in the lounge, he can see through the windows into the briefing room, where Jemma and Fitz are deep in discussion. Having spent so much of the last month hanging around the lab, he recognizes the pattern of conversation—Jemma’s constant stream of words and Fitz’s occasional interruption—enough to guess that Jemma’s theorizing about something. Most likely what Centipede could want with Chan.

He meets Coulson at the bottom of the stairs.

“Centipede again,” Coulson mutters.

“Not good news for Mr. Chan,” Grant feels compelled to point out.

“No,” Coulson agrees. “Get the account information from Mr. Lydon, then send it in to HQ. We’ll get communications on it, see what they can find.”

“Yes, sir.”

\---

The flight to Hong Kong is nearly eighteen hours long. By hour six, they have a probable location for Chan and a tentative plan of what to do when they get there. That leaves them twelve hours, which will put them at about 9 am, Bus time.

One of the problems with flying all over the world is the constantly changing time zones. It can be difficult to keep track of the day and time, which makes planning for things like meals and sleep complicated. Therefore, the team has adopted what they call Bus-time, or BST. All of the clocks on the Bus are set to the Academy’s time zone, and they never change that, no matter where in the world they are. They keep clocks in various places around the Bus set to local time, for reference, but they keep their schedules based around BST, just to keep things simple.

And according to BST, they’ll be flying through the night to get to Hong Kong. So, once the briefing is complete, Grant heads down to the cargo bay for his evening training. Jemma follows him down, and he’s not really surprised when she takes a seat on the steps instead of going into the lab.

“The best present I ever received was a children’s chemistry set, on my eighth birthday,” she says, apropos of nothing, as Grant begins his routine. “It was far below my level, of course, and it provided me very little in the way of entertainment. That wasn’t what made it special.”

“So what did?” he asks.

“It was from my Gran—my mum’s mum—and it was special because she’d never given me anything educational before. She always gave me dolls and clothes and the like, because she thought it would make me normal. She used to say that a lot— _normal_. ‘Jemmy’d be more _normal_ if you’d just make her watch more telly’ and ‘Jemmy isn’t _normal_ , maybe you should take her to a doctor’ and ‘don’t let the neighbors talk to Jemmy, they’ll realize she isn’t _normal_ ’—it’s all I ever heard from her. Well, she was speaking to my parents, of course, but always loudly enough for me to hear it.”

She taps her nails against the railing while Grant frowns at the ground.

“Of course, it made me horribly self-conscious. By the time I was seven, I dreaded seeing her. I used to go and hide in my room whenever she came to visit—which only made her more certain I wasn’t _normal_. So it was a complete shock when she gave me that chemistry set. She told me that it was a little advanced for my age, but she was sure I’d figure it out, since I was such a little genius. And she said it so—so _nicely_. And, you know, from that day to the day she died, I never once heard her say _normal_ again.”

He sits back on his heels, trying to think of something to say.

“I don’t know why, but I’ve been thinking of that all day,” Jemma continues, saving him. “I suppose it’s just…Skye never had that. She’s an orphan, so she’s never had well-meaning family members to hurt her feelings, or parents to set those well-meaning family members straight, as I’ve always expected my dad did. She never had birthdays where all of her relatives fussed over her, or—or anything like that. And I know _you_ didn’t either, and it doesn’t _excuse_ what Skye did, it’s just. I can see how she might have…latched on to Miles, and…I understand why she might be torn between us and him. Especially if she trusted his good intentions.”

Grant still doesn’t know what to say. He’s uncomfortably aware of the parallels here—Skye’s past with Lydon beating her loyalty to them—with his own loyalty to Garrett. What he owes Garrett far outweighs any allegiance he holds to SHIELD, and Jemma’s words—that it doesn’t excuse Skye’s actions—make him strangely uneasy.

But it’s different, he assures himself. No one will be hurt by Garrett’s plan. The only life that hangs in the balance is Garrett’s, and even if she might not approve of the methods, Jemma would definitely approve of saving it. After all, it’s the whole reason she signed up with SHIELD—to save lives.

“I get it,” he finally says. “Why she was torn, but…she turned her back on us. Chan’s life is in the balance. If Lydon had taken off instead of going back to his apartment, we might not have found him in time to save Chan. We still might not. And that’s on Skye.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “It’s just…”

“It’s just you like to see the best in people,” he interrupts. “And that’s nothing to be sorry about.”

(And if anyone tries to take advantage of her kind nature…well, Grant will be happy to show them the error of their ways.)

He decides impulsively to cut his training short. It’s been a long, strangely emotional day, and tomorrow is likely to be more of the same. He’ll have no trouble sleeping tonight.

“Come on,” he says, standing. “I’m done for tonight, and you look about ready to fall over.”

“I am,” she says, leaning against him for a brief moment before she starts up the stairs. “I could sleep for a week.”

“Unfortunately, all you can get is ten hours,” he tells her as they cross through the lounge. “So I won’t keep you any longer. Goodnight, Jemma.”

“Goodnight, Grant. Sleep well.”

“You, too,” he says as she slides her door closed.

There are things he could be doing to prepare for tomorrow’s op, but he’s pretty exhausted, too. He’ll deal with it in the morning.

\---

In the morning—which is the middle of the night in Hong Kong—he’s just strapping on his vest when Coulson stops him.

“Agent May and I will be handling the field work,” he says. “You stay and oversee the prisoners.”

He starts to walk away and Grant blinks after him. _He’s_ supposed to be responsible for field work. That’s literally the entire reason he’s here. (As far as Coulson knows, at least.) Furthermore, as Skye’s SO, this whole mess is technically his responsibility. He had ample opportunity to cross Skye off, and he considered it more than once, but ultimately, he let emotion sway him. This is on him.

“Sir?” he asks. “I was Skye’s SO, it was my responsibility—”

“It was my call to bring Skye onto the plane,” Coulson interrupts. “And you warned me against it.”

Well that’s certainly true.

“My problem,” Coulson finishes. “I fix it.”

He walks away, and Grant shakes his head a little. The whole situation is a little surreal, but at least he won’t have to go up against Centipede operatives. He has absolutely no loyalty to them, and he doesn’t mind crossing them off, but it’s still a little strange. And there’s always a little part of him that expects one of them to announce to the whole team that he’s behind Centipede. Which is ridiculous, obviously, because none of the Centipede employees even know that _Garrett_ is involved, let alone Grant. But he can’t help worrying about it.

Since he isn’t going into the field for this one, he strips off his vest as he heads upstairs. Jemma and Fitz are going to monitor the op from the briefing room, and apparently he’ll be joining them.

Jemma blinks at him when he enters the room. “Grant? What are you still doing here?”

“Coulson’s taking this one,” he tells her, leaning against the table. “Apparently he feels responsible for Skye’s screw up.”

“Oh, well,” she says, wrinkling her nose a bit. “That’s…good?”

“You don’t sound too sure, there,” he notes.

“Well, it’s not that I’m unhappy you won’t be throwing yourself into danger today,” she says. “But Agent Coulson isn’t a specialist. This is _your_ area of expertise, not his.”

He has to hold back a smile, both at her concern for him and the way her thoughts mirror his.

“Coulson may not be a specialist, but he can handle himself,” he assures her. “And he’s got May with him. They’ll be fine.”

“Of course,” she agrees. The table beeps, and she looks down. “Oh! Fitz, could you—”

“On it,” Fitz says. He pokes at his tablet for a moment. “Try that.”

“Yes, that’s done it,” Jemma says. “So, comms are up and secure—”

“The team’s just arrived at the location,” Fitz continues.

“All that’s left to do is wait,” Jemma finishes, biting her lip.

Of course, the team’s luck being what it is, things aren’t that simple. Coulson and May have barely entered the building when it goes into lockdown, and Coulson calls on them for help.

“Fitz?” Grant says.

Fitz taps frantically at the table for a few moments, then shakes his head. “I can’t get into their system! I’m an engineer, not a bloody hacker!”

Grant doesn’t bother to respond. He just takes off for the Cage. Transgressions aside, he knows Skye cares about Coulson. She’ll do her best to save him.

She and Lydon both look up when he bursts through the door.

“Coulson’s in trouble,” he says, hurrying to unlock Skye’s handcuffs. “We need you to override the building’s security.”

She’s up and out of the Cage as soon as the handcuffs click off, and Grant hesitates before following her. Lydon might come in handy, and they don’t have time to be running back and forth from the Cage all morning.

“If you try anything,” he says, bending to unlock the cuffs from the table. He’s not about to trust this guy to walk around free. “I’ll break your neck. Got it?”

“Got it,” Lydon says, standing.

He leads Lydon to the briefing room to find Skye already hard at work, frantically trying to hack Centipede’s system.

“What—what is he doing? What are you doing?” Fitz demands when he sees Lydon.

Grant ignores him, shoving Lydon to stand on one side of Skye, then taking his place on the other. It’s not an accident that this puts Jemma as far away from Lydon as possible. Just because Grant’s confident in his ability to cross this guy off in seconds doesn’t mean he’s going to take chances.

“The entire facility’s been locked down,” Jemma frets. He has absolutely no comfort to offer her. Things really aren’t looking good, and it’s not encouraging that they haven’t heard anything from Coulson since he reported that Chan lost it.

“Are you sure about this?” Fitz presses.

“No,” Grant admits.

“The alarm’s disconnected the system from all exterior servers,” Skye says.

“Can you fix it, or not?” he demands, although he actually understood that and is pretty sure of the answer.

“Yes, but you gotta get me on site.”

“Not a chance,” he denies.

“No way,” Lydon says at the same time.

Grant gives Lydon a dirty look. It pains him to be in agreement with this idiot, and the fact that he thinks he actually has any say in this really pisses Grant off.

“You’re a hacker, Skye, not SEAL Team Six,” Lydon continues.

“No,” Skye agrees. “But he is.”

Grant always appreciates his skill being acknowledged, but it’ll take more than flattery to convince him to take Skye into the building. She’s untrained and untrustworthy, and furthermore, taking her in means leaving Lydon alone with Jemma and Fitz.

But they still haven’t heard anything from Coulson and May. And Lydon has no history of violence. Even if he did, what the hell would he do? They’re in Hong Kong, there’s no way he can fly the Bus, and he doesn’t have his passport or any money.

Grant hates it, but he’ll have to risk it.

“Fine. We’re going in,” he tells Skye.

She takes a deep breath, and he pulls out his backup pistol and hands it to Jemma. He’s worked with her and Fitz in the makeshift shooting range in storage 3A, so he knows she’s the better shot.

“If he makes one wrong move, shoot him,” he instructs.

“Absolutely,” she says at once. He honestly doubts it, but at least she seems to realize how difficult it is for him to leave her here with a known criminal. And hopefully, just the threat will be enough to keep Lydon in line. Jemma squeezes his hand. “Good luck.”

“Good luck,” Fitz echoes. He’s keeping a wary eye on Lydon, Grant notes in approval.

“Let’s go,” he says to Skye, and they exit the briefing room. He pauses briefly to pick up his vest from where he left it on the couch in the lounge, then leads the way down to the cargo bay and the SUV.

The Bus is in a parking lot mercifully close to where Chan’s being held, and it’s barely five minutes before Grant’s leading the way into the building.

The place is crawling with security, which slows their progress a little, but none of them are especially well-trained. It’s no trouble to take them down, and they’re on the fourth floor within minutes.

“Where are we on the doors?” May suddenly asks. It’s a relief that she’s well enough to speak, but her urgent tone suggests that they still haven’t taken Chan down, so Grant speeds up a bit.

“Almost there,” he answers, throwing one of the guards into the wall. He punches the next one out and elbows a third who’s reaching for Skye. Then he grabs Skye’s arm and pulls her along behind him as he heads for the security office.

It’s just down the hall, and he lets go of Skye so she can take a seat. He resolves not to bug her about her progress, but that only lasts for about five seconds.

“How long is this gonna take?” he asks, unable to help himself.

“Done,” she says, standing.

Well, that was easy. He follows Skye out of the office and looks around, considering his next move.

“Simmons,” Coulson suddenly says. “Are the building’s computers back online?”

“Yes,” Jemma answers after a brief pause.

“Uncuff Miles,” Coulson orders. “We’re gonna need his help.”

Grant barely keeps from swearing. “Sir?”

“I know you don’t like it, Ward,” Coulson says. “I don’t either. But our only option is to let Chan blow, and we need to minimize the damage. The best way to do that is to redirect the blast through the vents on the roof. You got that, Simmons?”

“Miles is on it, sir,” Jemma replies.

“May and I will handle Chan. Ward, you and Skye collect the other agents in the building and get out.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant answers, and motions Skye down the hall.

They come across one of the Hong Kong agents less than a minute later, and he uses his radio to alert the rest of his team to get out. That simplifies the job tremendously, and the three of them head for the bottom floor.

“I managed to extract some files and send them to the Bus,” Skye tells him breathlessly as they run down the stairs, the Hong Kong agent in the lead. “Not a lot, but…”

“Every bit helps,” he agrees. “The more we can find out about Centipede, the better.”

They meet up with Coulson and May in the lobby, and the five of them burst through the doors and out into the street. They make it just in time, and they all stare up in awe as flames shoot from the vents in the roof and spiral into the air. As the explosion dies out, Grant fills Coulson in on what Skye did. There’s an odd tone to Coulson’s voice when he replies, and Grant realizes he’s upset about what happened with Chan.

“You can’t save someone from themselves, sir,” he says.

“You can if you get to ‘em early enough,” Coulson counters, and Grant has to concede that point. After all, that’s exactly what Garrett did for him. Coulson looks pointedly at Skye, and she looks away.

Grant wonders if that means that Coulson’s going to try and save Skye, give her another chance and let her stay on the Bus. He’s not sure how he feels about the idea. On the one hand, this op has proven how valuable a member of the team Skye is—they’d have been utterly screwed without her. On the other…

She’s still holding back. She betrayed them yesterday to help out Lydon, but it’s really just a coincidence they ended up with this case. So she didn’t join the team for him. She joined for another reason, and Grant won’t accept her on the team until he knows for sure what that reason was. He won’t risk Jemma.

“There’s nothing more we can do here,” Coulson says finally. “We’ll leave the clean up to the Hong Kong office. Let’s go.”

The car May and Coulson took to the scene belongs to SHIELD Hong Kong, so all four of them will be riding back to the Bus in their SUV. Coulson waves Grant to the driver’s seat, and he takes it without comment. He’s concerned, though—both about Coulson’s mental state, and the possibility of Skye being invited to stay with the team.

No one speaks on the drive back to the Bus, and he’s thankful to park in the cargo bay so he can get away from the oppressive silence. They troop upstairs and find Jemma and Fitz waiting in the lounge, with Lydon off sulking near the kitchen.

After the requisite greetings, assurances that no one’s significantly injured, and expressions of relief that the whole team made it out alive, Grant jerks his chin in Lydon’s direction.

“He behave?” he asks.

“He wanted to stay in the briefing room and play with our system,” Jemma says, following his gaze. “I’m afraid he’s pouting a bit, since we wouldn’t let him.”

“He listened when you said no?” he asks, a little impressed.

“He did when Simmons threatened to _shoot_ _him_ ,” Fitz interjects.

Well, now he’s a lot impressed. And, honestly, a bit turned on. That’s just…really hot.

Jemma clears her throat, blushing a little. “Speaking of which,” she says, and hands him his gun. He’s not wearing his second holster, not needing it when Jemma had this gun, so he tucks it into the waistband of his pants.

“You really threatened to shoot him?” Coulson asks, obviously amused.

“She even took the safety off,” Fitz tells him. “Ward is clearly a terrible influence.”

“I wouldn’t have really done it,” Jemma defends. “And in any case, the threat was enough.”

Grant smiles to himself as he unclips his vest. He wouldn’t consider himself a _terrible_ influence, but it’s true that there’s no way Jemma would have ever threatened to shoot someone when they first met. It’s probably not a good thing, and he would hate for her to lose her kind nature, but…It’s nice to know he’s not the only one being influenced, here.

“Set a course for the states,” Coulson orders May. “We’ll be leaving as soon as we get rid of our guest.”

May nods and heads for the cockpit. Coulson turns to Skye.

“If you’d like to say goodbye, you can wait for him in the cargo bay,” he says flatly.

“Thank you,” she says, and leaves the lounge.

“We’re not leaving Skye, as well?” Jemma asks cautiously.

“Not here, at least,” Coulson answers. “Ward, do we have any tracking bracelets on board?”

“Yes, sir,” Grant says. “They’re in storage 2B. Would you like me to go get one?”

“That’s not necessary,” Coulson says. “I’m sure I can find them.”

He motions sharply to Lydon, who joins them in the lounge. Grant’s amused to note that the hacker keeps his distance from both him and Jemma.

“Downstairs,” Coulson orders. “Now.”

He follows Lydon out of the lounge, and Grant blows out a slow breath.

“Not here,” Fitz says quietly. “So, is Skye going to be…?”

“I don’t know,” Jemma responds, equally as quiet. “She was a lot of help today, but…”

“That’s up to Coulson, and I don’t think he’s decided yet,” Grant tells them. “In the meantime, Skye managed to send some of Centipede’s files to our system, if you’d like to take a look.”

He’s betting that the chance to get some information on the Centipede serum and the associated tech will be enough to distract the two scientists, and he’s right. Jemma hesitates before going to the briefing room.

“I know you want to look at those files,” he tells her. “Go. We’ll talk later.”

“Do you need—?”

“No need for medical attention,” he promises. “Not even a scratch.”

“Good,” she says. She squeezes his hand briefly, then follows Fitz to the briefing room.

Grant heads for the bar, after a brief detour to drop his vest in his room. He’s not surprised to find May already there.

“Drink?” she offers as he takes the stool next to her.

“Please,” he says. As she pours, he adds, “Make it a double.”

“Is there any other kind?” she asks.

He flicks a thoughtful glance at her. He’s not sure where he stands with May. He knows he doesn’t have her trust, not completely, and that’s natural, but it’s also inconvenient. If Jemma weren’t his soulmate, if this were just a normal mission, he might find a way to become intimate with May. Let her be in control, show that he trusts her and it doesn’t bother him to take a backseat to what she wants, and she’d probably dismiss him as a threat.

He doesn’t regret finding Jemma, of course, but she does add some extra dimensions to this mission. He’ll have to find another way to gain May’s trust. He’s not sure how, but he’ll think of something eventually.

He hears footsteps behind him and recognizes them as Skye’s, but he doesn’t turn around. Instead, he picks up his drink.

“So, I'm going to Coulson's office now,” Skye says. “Figured you might wanna be there…being my SO and all.”

Grant shakes his head, keeping his eyes on his drink. “I’m off the clock.”

“Right,” Skye says. “Okay, then.”

She hesitates for a long moment, then walks away, and Grant knocks back half his drink. He doesn’t know what Coulson’s going to do. He doesn’t know what he _wants_ Coulson to do. At the moment, he mostly just wants to hit something.

May finishes her drink and sets the glass down.

“Wheels up in three,” she warns him, then walks away. He does like that about her—no unnecessary conversation.

He lingers at the bar long after he’s finished his drink, watching through the windows of the briefing room as Jemma and Fitz argue over whatever’s in the Centipede files. He’s not concerned about that—there’s no way anything in those files leads back to Garrett, or to him. Garrett’s too cautious. Everything Centipede-related is going to be a dead end, no matter how hard the team searches.

He hears footsteps, and Coulson takes a seat next to him.

“Skye’s staying on,” he says as he pours himself a drink. “She’ll wear a tracking bracelet, and we’ll keep a close eye on her, but I don’t think she’ll do anything like this again.”

Grant nods silently.

“You disagree?” Coulson asks.

“No, sir.”

Coulson raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’m…concerned about Skye’s motives,” he says carefully. “All this time, she’s been holding back. That wasn’t because of Lydon. She had no idea he was going to hack us, so she didn’t join SHIELD because of him. Which begs the question, why did she?”

Coulson sets his glass down. “She’s looking for information on her parents.”

“Sir?”

“The only thing she’s been able to find about her placement at the orphanage she grew up in is a redacted file,” Coulson says.

“Redacted by SHIELD?” Grant guesses.

“Yep.”

Well. That explains a lot, doesn’t it? Everything Skye said after the op in Malta, about wanting to belong, takes on a whole new meaning.

“Huh,” he says.

“That clear things up for you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, you’ll be okay keeping Skye on the team,” Coulson presses.

“You don’t need my blessing for that, sir,” Grant points out. Or anything, really. Coulson’s his CO. Grant’s opinions on his decisions count for exactly nothing.

“No,” Coulson agrees. “But I’d like it. I’d like you to keep training her. And I need to know if you’re going to be willing to work with her.”

He takes a deep breath. “She saved our asses today. It’s obvious we need her. And if this is all she’s hiding, I’ll give her another shot.”

He stands, then pauses.

“But if she turns on us again, I’m crossing her off,” he warns Coulson. “With or without your permission.”

“Fair enough,” Coulson agrees, and Grant walks away.

He still really wants to hit something. So he’s gonna go do that.

\---

A few hours later, his frustration effectively taken out on the punching bag, he settles on the couch in the lounge with his newest book, Ridgway’s _The Korean War_. Usually he does his reading in the lab, but Jemma’s been back and forth to the briefing room all morning, so the lounge seems like a better choice.

He’s only been reading for about twenty minutes when Jemma comes out of the briefing room and, instead of heading down to the lab again, flops down beside him. He closes his book and sets it aside as she slumps against him.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“I don’t know Chinese,” she says, a little petulantly. “Why did I never think to learn Chinese? It’s the most widely spoken language on the _planet_ , how did it not occur to me that knowing it may come in handy?”

He holds back a laugh and slips his arm around her shoulders. “Can’t read the files?”

“Only five of them are in English,” she confirms. “We’ve sent the rest off to HQ for translation, but there’s no telling when we’ll get them back.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I know how curious you are about the Centipede serum.”

“Yes, well, enough of that,” she says. “There’s nothing more I can do with what’s in the English files, at least not today. And I believe you owe me a game of Battleship.”

“I do,” he agrees. He stands, then offers her a hand so she can do the same. “You wanna get some snacks while I go get the game?”

“Sounds good,” she agrees, and they split off.

A few minutes later, he’s setting up the game as she puts water bottles and a bowl of chips on the table. He takes a seat and offers brief instructions on the basics of the game, including how to set up her case.

“I just have one question, before we begin,” she says, her hand hesitating over the bag of battleships.

“What’s that?”

“Will the progress of our relationship be affected by how badly I beat you?” she asks.

And that—well, he can’t let _that_ go without retaliation.

It earns them a ten-minute long lecture on the evils of public displays of affection from a horrified Fitz, but the chase around the lounge—and the subsequent marathon make-out session—despite making him feel like he’s in high school, is entirely worth it.


	6. FZZT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is killing firefighters in Pennsylvania. Then things get much, much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for all of the comments and kudos. People have really been looking forward to this chapter, so I hope it doesn't disappoint!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and, as always, please be kind if you review!

The night-night gun, ridiculous name aside, is a very useful tool for field work. More efficient than a tranq gun and less lethal than a real gun, it can make ops a lot easier. Which is why SciOps Command has given Fitz the task of making the design more efficient, so they can begin mass production. Once mass production is possible, the night-night pistol will be standard issue for all field agents.

Naturally, this means that Fitz has been working day and night on revamping it, and, as the most convenient specialist, Grant has been called upon to repeatedly test the various prototypes. He never holds back on the criticism, though he tries not to be too harsh. But if the night-night gun is going to be standard issue, he wants to make sure it’s perfect.

He can admit that he’s been nitpicking, but all of his complaints have been entirely genuine, and mostly born of experience on previous missions. It’s not like he can explain that to Fitz, though, most of his missions being _classified_ , and he knows he’s getting on the engineer’s nerves. Actually, Fitz has developed a habit of mocking him as soon as he leaves the room, apparently unaware or uncaring of how well sound travels in the storage area behind the lab.

Grant doesn’t mind. Fitz is actually kind of entertaining, in an annoying sort of way.

Because of that, he’s started pausing to listen before entering the lab. It gives him the chance to check if Fitz is doing an impression of him, and blank his face if that’s the case. It wouldn’t do to give the game away by laughing.

So, even though it’s a little urgent, he pauses before entering the lab to fetch Jemma, Fitz, and Skye for their assignment. He had just left the lab when Coulson caught him and asked him to round them up, and he knows Fitz will have a lot to say about his order to make the gun an ounce lighter. To his surprise, though, it’s not Fitz who’s speaking, but Jemma.

“I’m Agent Grant Ward, and I could rupture your spleen with my left pinky. Blindfolded.”

He has to physically clap his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud, because that? That was _hilarious_. Her impression is so awful he wouldn’t have even known it was him she was mocking if she hadn’t started with his name. And what was that stance? What was that even supposed to be?

Jemma has a long list of talents, but apparently impersonations don’t make the list. It’s all the more hilarious for all of the time they spend together. He’d expect her to at least be able to mimic his accent, but that was just as terrible as her attempt to lower her voice.

He takes a deep breath and does his best to wipe the amusement from his face. He really doesn’t have time to be hanging around in the hallway.

“Hustle up and grab your gear,” he says, entering the lab. “We’re on a mission.”

The three of them are obviously trying to stifle their laughter, and he honestly can’t resist.

“Something funny?”

The three exchange wide-eyed looks, and then Jemma picks the night-night pistol up from the table.

“Poor, silly Fitz,” she says, holding out the gun. “He mistakenly left a dummy round in the pistol. Should be proper now.”

Somehow managing to keep a straight face, he takes the gun from her and tests out the weight again, noting as he does the way she wrinkles her nose, which is just…adorable.

Of course, the gun still has the ounce, but looking down at Jemma’s attempt at an innocent expression, he knows there’s no way he’ll be able to keep a straight face for much longer.

“Great,” he says, handing the gun back. “Thanks.”

He leaves the lab and ducks into a storage closet so he can laugh for a moment. That was honestly the funniest thing he’s seen in months.

He’s barely taken three steps out of the storage closet when he hears Jemma call his name. He turns and finds her standing just outside of the lab.

“Sorry,” she says. “But you didn’t say, exactly what sort of mission do we have? Which equipment should I bring?”

“Right,” he says. He takes a few steps closer so they don’t need to shout. “We’ve got a body. A man was killed, cause unknown. HQ says lightning may be somehow involved.”

“Thank you,” she says a little absently. He can tell she’s already planning what to bring, as well as considering how lightning might play into it. “And when do we leave?”

“Five minutes,” he tells her. “Better hurry.”

She nods and goes back into the lab, already calling for Fitz. He shakes his head and starts in the direction of the ladder that leads upstairs. He won’t really need any gear of his own on this one, but it’s November in Pennsylvania. He’s going to need a jacket.

\---

An hour later, they’re at the scene: a campsite in Wrigley, Pennsylvania. Grant really hopes they wrap this mission up quickly, because he hates this part of the country. Being so close to where he grew up always puts an itch under his skin, like the nearer he gets to Massachusetts, the more his memories of childhood want to just crawl right out of him. It’s not a fun sensation. Also, although it looks nothing like Wyoming, the campsite is in a forest. They’re surrounded by trees.

Grant hates trees.

As Jemma and Fitz get their gear from the trunk, Coulson begins to brief the team.

“We’ve got a dead man, a Boy Scout troop leader. He died during some sort of electrostatic anomaly that also managed to disable the other troop leader’s vehicle.”

“Electrostatic anomaly?” Jemma and Fitz echo. They exchange confused looks, and Fitz puts down the case he’s carrying to pull out his tablet.

“Nearest one was California,” he mutters to Jemma after a moment of frantic typing.

Jemma makes a thoughtful noise.

“FitzSimmons?” Coulson asks, motioning in the direction of the scene.

“Oh, right, sorry,” Fitz says, stowing his tablet and picking up his case.

“Yes, please proceed,” Jemma says.

“Troop leader’s name was Adam Cross,” Coulson tells them as they begin walking. “Apparently he said he heard something in the woods, went to check it out. That’s where the electrostatic anomaly occurred.”

“What I don’t understand is,” Fitz says as Grant, Skye, and May break away to examine the campsite. “Usually they’re caused by a massive electrical storm.”

“But there wasn’t a storm within a thousand miles of here last night,” Jemma continues.

Grant spots something under a tree, and, crossing the campsite to get a better look, finds that it’s a car battery. He’s staring at it, utterly perplexed, when he hears May’s voice.

“The battery blew straight up through the hood,” she says from where she’s examining the disabled vehicle.

Well, that explains it. “Landed over here,” he calls. He looks over at the vehicle, then back at the battery, calculating the distance. “Hell of a force to create that kind of trajectory.”

He stands, turning to face the tree, and Skye bumps into him. He twists to look at her.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m shadowing my supervising officer,” she says, like it’s obvious. Her insistence on pretending everything’s normal, like she didn’t betray them _two weeks ago_ , is really starting to get on his nerves.

“Shadowing,” he tells her. “Not smothering.”

A closer look at the tree proves that it’s covered in scorch marks. Grant takes a moment to be amazed that the entire forest didn’t burn down, then moves on to where the rest of the team is gathered near the body.

Which is…floating.

Literally. The body is hanging in midair, no strings, no supports. It’s completely bizarre, and like nothing he’s ever seen before.

Fitz already has his computer out, and Jemma is pulling on gloves. She’s appropriately respectful of the man’s death, obviously genuinely upset that this complete stranger lost his life, but she can’t contain her fascination at the fact that he’s floating. Even more interesting, when Coulson presses the two scientists for answers, they admit they have absolutely no idea what could have caused this.

That’s not a usual state of affairs for Jemma, but it seems to excite her, rather than upset her. It’s one of the things he likes best about her, her gleeful fascination with everything to do with science. He once spent four months working security for a SHIELD lab in an active warzone, and the thing that stood out the most was the general attitude of the scientists there, who were always snappish and irritable. When faced with a problem they didn’t understand, they would spend hours insulting the intelligence of anyone who dared question them, as though to point out that they might not know what was causing the strange events, but at least they were smarter than all of the field agents.

Jemma stands in distinct and favorable contrast.

Focusing back on the problem, he points out that if this isn’t an unnatural event, it might be a new high-tech weapon. Skye suggests that it might be someone from the Index, but, as May points out, there’s no one on it with this kind of power.

Coulson intends to contact Agent Blake at HQ and have him take a closer look at the Index—and presumably those who have been dismissed from it. As he’s telling them this, Jemma calls Fitz’s attention to some discoloration on the victim’s forehead. She moves forward to take a closer look, then moves back with a little gasp as the body suddenly falls to the ground.

Grant checks his instinctive move for her, seeing that she’s just startled.

“Freaky,” Fitz comments.

“Freeeeaky,” Jemma agrees. She takes a look around, then shakes her head, turning to face the rest of them. “There’s really nothing more I can do here, sir. I’d like to bring Mr. Cross back to the Bus. This may require some of our less portable equipment.”

“Right,” Coulson says. “I’ll arrange it. The rest of you should head back to the Bus. Skye, dig up what you can on Mr. Cross. See if there’s anyone who might want to hurt him. May, question the other troop leader. Maybe he knows something. Ward…”

Coulson trails off, and Grant follows his gaze to see that Jemma and Fitz are crouching next to the body, their heads bent over Fitz’s trifold computer. They’re deep in conversation, which would probably be completely incomprehensible even if they _were_ finishing their sentences.

“Try and contain your soulmate,” Coulson finishes.

Jemma gesticulates wildly in her excitement, and Grant shakes his head a little.

“No promises, sir.”

\---

An hour later, they’re back on the Bus, with Cross’ body safely deposited in the lab—against Fitz’s strenuous objections. Grant’s seen a lot of dead bodies in his time. They don’t bother him. Hell, he’s created enough of them. But that doesn’t mean he wants to stand around and watch his soulmate cut into one, so he excuses himself and heads upstairs as soon as Jemma puts her gloves on.

Skye’s in the briefing room, presumably continuing the search on Cross she started in the SUV on the way back from the scene. He’s sure she’ll have results for them soon, considering how fast she usually works, so he doesn’t go far, just takes a seat at the kitchen table.

He’s concerned about Cross’ death. If it _was_ caused by a weapon, then it must be seriously high-tech to stump Jemma and Fitz like that. The natural presumption is that it’s Cybertek work, and if it’s Cybertek work, it’s likely a commission of Garrett’s.

He really, really hopes not. They’ve come across Centipede three times now (not that the team knows that, being unaware of the connection between Centipede and the high-tech eye Amador was sporting) and they’ve impeded Centipede’s operations in some way every time. He doesn’t like that. Every setback for Centipede is a setback for Garrett, and there’s no way of knowing how much time Garrett has left. He’s been in his current condition for nearly fourteen years. He needs to be healed, and he needs it quickly.

So Grant really, really hopes that this has nothing to do with Centipede. This mission is difficult enough, trying to gain everyone’s trust enough that Coulson will eventually be willing to share the details of how he came back from the dead. All of the complications—whether bad, like constantly running into Centipede; good, like Jemma; or other, like Skye’s presence—just make things harder.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps on the nearby stairs, and he looks over to see Coulson coming down from his office.

“Skye’s done searching,” he says, and Grant stands and follows him into the briefing room.

Skye has a lot of nothing, basically, aside from complaints about the tracking bracelet. Cross was a teacher, a coach, and a volunteer firefighter, in addition to Boy Scout troop leader, and there’s nothing to suggest he has any enemies. Not at first glance, at least. People are rarely as innocent as they appear on the surface.

Coulson agrees and tells Skye to dig deeper. After she leaves, he turns to Grant.

Apparently, Coulson thinks that Skye doing a basic background check on a victim is a good way to gain trust back. He also thinks that Grant is being too hard on her. Grant is, honestly, confused. He’s still training her, he’s still teaching her SHIELD protocol, and he hasn’t once taken her to task for what she did in Austin. What more does Coulson want?

Coulson doesn’t give him any clues. Instead, he says, “Put it up on the server. I want May to have a look when she’s done with her interrogation.”

“Yes, sir.”

After putting the results of the background check on the server, he lingers in the briefing room. On  a whim, he pulls up the security feed from the lab. Jemma’s in there alone, running some kind of scanner over the body’s forehead, and he watches her for a few minutes, unable to hold back a smile. Even though there’s no one but a dead body to listen, she’s obviously talking, keeping up a running commentary on whatever it is she’s seeing.

At one point it looks like she’s asking Cross’ body a question, and Grant shakes his head as he turns off the feed. Jemma’s not really used to working alone, and it shows. She’s always talking to herself when she works, even if Fitz isn’t in the room to respond to her observations. It’s something he likes about her, the way she gets so excited about her discoveries, wants to share them with everyone, whether or not they’re capable of understanding them.

That’s part of why he likes spending his time in the lab—aside from the obvious reason of getting to be near Jemma. It’s comforting, soothing to have her voice as background noise, nothing he’s expected to listen or respond to but there to pull him out of his head if he gets caught up in dark thoughts. Everything about her is a comfort to him, but her voice is especially effective.

Shaking off his musings, he leaves the briefing room and heads for his bunk. There’s literally nothing for him to do until they have more answers, so he might as well take a nap. First rule of field work: always grab sleep when you can. You never know when circumstances are going to require you to be awake for ninety-six hours straight.

Case in point: he’s barely sat down to kick off his boots when the intercom activates.

“Ward! We’ve got another anomaly building, meet us in the cargo bay,” Coulson orders.

Grant swears and grabs his gun and his jacket, then runs for the stairs. By the time he’s down them, May and Coulson are already in the SUV, and he wastes no time in climbing into the backseat. May backs out of the Bus before he even finishes closing his door, and then they’re tearing across the parking lot and out onto the street.

The SUV’s comm is on, connected to the lab, and as they drive, Fitz gives them periodic updates about the electrostatic charge. It’s growing fast, and they’ve got no idea where it’s centered.

Skye’s on it, though. “There’s a farmhouse a mile north of you, right at the center of the signal. That’s _got_ to be it.”

“Skye, dig up everything you can on whoever lives at that farm,” Coulson orders. “We need to know who we’re dealing with.”

Fitz mutters something, then, before they can ask him to repeat it, says, “Ehm, it’s gone.”

“What’s gone?” Coulson asks.

“The electrostatic signal,” Fitz clarifies. “It seemed to pulse, then disappear.”

Coulson looks at May. “We need a shortcut.”

She nods, taps at the nav screen for a moment, and then turns sharply, cutting through a field. They pull up at a barn thirty seconds later, and all three of them hurry to get out of the car. Grant’s pretty sure that the dissipation of the electrostatic energy means that whoever is inside this barn is dead, but the killer might still be around, so he keeps his gun up as he circles the SUV and approaches the barn.

Coulson pauses at the door, gun down but ready, and points out that the door is barred from the inside.

“Hayloft’s open,” Grant notes.

“We could ram it with the truck,” Coulson suggests.

May kicks the door in. Well, that works. Grant leads the way into the barn, gun at the ready, doing a quick sweep as he moves forward. Then he stops, eyes fixed on the body floating above him.

“Scan the perimeter,” Coulson orders after a moment. “Whoever did this couldn’t have gotten far.”

Grant nods and leaves the barn. They didn’t make it in time to save this man, whoever he is, but they can sure as hell catch his killer before anyone else dies.

Except there’s no sign of a killer. No tracks—human or vehicle. No cars down the road. No sign of anyone trying to make a quick getaway. A quick visual examination proves that there’s nothing out of place in the farmhouse. He heads back into the barn and reports this to Coulson, who frowns.

“Skye, we need real-time sat surveillance on this area, right now,” Coulson says into his comm.

“Hang on,” Skye says. “I think I found something you might want to see first. Sending it over now.”

Coulson pulls out his phone, and Grant glances over his shoulder to see a picture of four firemen, one of whom is Adam Cross. Skye fills them in that the owner of the farm, Frank Whalen, was a volunteer firefighter at the same station house as Adam Cross. Furthermore, they were both responders during the Battle of New York.

Well, that’ll help narrow down the suspect list. Of course, it could also mean that the rest of the firefighters at that station house are in danger. They need to move fast and figure this out before the killer can get to anyone else.

Coulson seems to agree.

“Skye, Fitzsimmons, we need you on the scene,” he says. “The fleet SUV we brought to the campsite earlier is still parked outside the Bus. Take it and come here, find out what you can. The three of us are going to that firehouse.”

“Yes, sir,” Jemma says.

“On our way,” Fitz agrees.

Coulson and May go back to the SUV, while Grant does one last scan of the perimeter. He’s pretty sure that whoever did this is long gone, but it doesn’t hurt to double check, especially when his soulmate is about to be on site.

“Ward!” Coulson calls.

There’s no one here. Jemma, Fitz, and Skye will be fine.

\---

The firehouse is several hours away, so the others reach the barn while they’re still en route.

Twenty minutes after the other three call in to say they’ve reached the barn, Skye reports that the firehouse sent a dozen volunteers to New York after the Chitauri invasion, Cross and Whalen among them. It’s possible that the two men were killed by an alien weapon. Since the only other possibility Grant can think of is Cybertek, he’s really hoping that’s the case.

It’s dark when they reach the firehouse, and when they enter it, they find several men playing cards in the garage. Coulson introduces himself, says they’re from SHIELD, and tells the chief that they’d like to take a look around. Grant and May split off to do just that.

Grant’s rifling through a hall closet when Coulson says, “Cover the back door. Nobody comes in or out.”

“On it,” Grant says, abandoning the closet and heading toward the back of the firehouse. When he reaches it, there’s no one in sight, so he takes up a position outside, next to the door, with his gun drawn. The comms are still open, so he hears Skye announce that another event is starting, this time at the firehouse.  He also hears Coulson talking to one of the firemen, a Mr. Diaz, but he doesn’t move until Coulson orders Diaz to stop whatever he’s doing.

That, combined with Skye’s news of an event starting at the firehouse, seems to make it obvious that Diaz is behind the deaths of Cross and Whalen, which means there’s no need to guard the door. He heads back into the firehouse as May alerts Coulson that she’s found the weapon—except it’s not a weapon, it’s a Chitauri helmet.

Diaz is claiming that he hasn’t done anything with it, that it’s just a souvenir and all he’s done is clean it, when Jemma figures things out.

“That wasn’t rust,” she mutters. Then, louder, “May, don’t touch it! Sir, he’s not using a weapon. He’s infected. I think the helmet was the source of an alien virus.”

He nearly runs into May when he turns the corner, and she motions down the hall. They’re close enough that they can hear Diaz talking without the comms. They reach the kitchen just in time to see the horrified realization on Diaz’s face when he realizes that the other two people to clean the helmet are the ones who are dead.

“Mr. Diaz,” Coulson says gently. “I’m putting the gun away now, okay?”

As he does so, Jemma speaks again. “Sir? He’s at 600 megajoules and climbing. Sir?”

Coulson turns to look at Grant and May.

“Clear everybody out,” he orders. When they hesitate, he repeats, “Clear  everybody out. Now.”

So they do. The firefighters put up a bit of a fight, not wanting to leave Diaz behind and demanding to know what’s going on, but eventually everyone’s out of the building. Except Coulson and Diaz, that is. All the while, he can hear Coulson over the comm, talking to Diaz about death. Grant listens closely, but all of Coulson’s talk is about death itself, about what he felt while he was dead. He doesn’t say anything about how he came back.

He says it was beautiful there, wherever there was. Grant doesn’t know what to think about that.

“You better get going, buddy,” Diaz says hoarsely. “Go.”

Coulson doesn’t respond, but a few seconds later he’s walking out of the firehouse, the garage door closing behind him. He makes it just in time; the door has barely closed before the entire building lights up blue and then goes dark.

There’s a long moment of silence, in respect of the fact that Diaz is dead. Then Coulson pulls out his phone.

“I’m going to call this into HQ, get a containment team out here,” he says. “Tell FitzSimmons to get here as quickly as possible. We need to contain this virus, and we’ll all need to be checked for infection.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant says quietly. It makes sense; they were all in the building with Diaz, barely made it out before he died. There’s a good chance that the three of them and all of the firefighters were infected.

Grant’s just glad that Jemma was safely on the Bus, far away from any alien viruses.

\---

They spend all night at the firehouse, waiting for the containment team, dealing with Diaz’s body, and searching the building for any other alien ‘souvenirs’. Jemma, Fitz, and Skye arrive sometime after dawn, and Fitz immediately orders Grant, Coulson, and May to line up so he can scan them for infection. Usually, Grant would have something to say about Fitz trying to order him around, but this time he just silently obeys. He’d never admit it to anyone, but his heart is in his throat.

There’s nothing he can do against an alien virus. Against any kind of virus. A virus can’t be fought off, not with weapons or hand-to-hand, and it can’t be manipulated or threatened into leaving someone alone. If Grant is infected, he’ll have absolutely no way of doing anything about it.

Luckily, though, he’s not infected. None of them are. Fitz gives them a clean bill of health as a SHIELD Hazmat team leads the firefighters out to a bus that will be taking them to a containment facility for quarantine. The helmet, however, is going with them, as Skye points out worriedly.

“We’re flying it to the Sandbox,” Coulson tells her.

“Sandbox?” Skye echoes, confused.

“It’s a SHIELD research facility across the Atlantic,” Jemma explains without turning around. She’s staring after the firefighters, clearly concerned for them. “They specialize in hazardous materials.”

“If what you suspect is true,” Coulson says, gaining Jemma’s attention. “That this is a virus? Then those firefighters could be infected. And they’re gonna need a cure. Find one.”

That’s a lot to put on Jemma’s shoulders, but Grant doesn’t say anything. The fact of the matter is, Jemma is the best hope those firefighters have. If she can’t figure out how to cure this virus, no one can.

“Yes, sir,” Jemma says. She looks worried though, and he lingers next to her as the rest of the team heads for the SUV.

“You all right?” he asks her.

“I’m fine,” she says, smiling up at him. “A chance to examine an alien virus? It’s an amazing opportunity. Dr. Staffer will be green with envy when he hears about this.”

“Uh huh,” he says, unconvinced. Still, he knows that pushing her to admit she’s nervous about the weight of the responsibility that’s just been placed on her won’t help anything. “Come on. The sooner we get back to the Bus, the sooner we can make Dr. Staffer jealous.”

Not that he has any idea who Dr. Staffer is, but the comment makes Jemma smile, so. Mission accomplished. He follows her to the SUV feeling slightly better. There’s nothing he can do against a virus, but Jemma can do plenty. He knows she’s got this.

\---

They take off for the Sandbox as soon as the Hazmat team drops the helmet in the Cage and leaves. It’s a long flight, nearly nine hours, and there’s no time to waste. The sooner that thing’s off the Bus, the better.

After checking that Jemma’s okay in the lab, Grant heads up to his bunk. It’s still early morning, BST, but he was up all night and he’s exhausted. There’s nothing he can do to help Jemma find a cure for the virus, so he might as well catch up on some sleep.

\---

Five hours later, he’s woken by the sound of someone knocking on his door.

“Ward?” It’s Fitz. “Agent Coulson wants to see us in the cargo bay.”

“Yeah, be right there,” he says. He doesn’t dawdle getting dressed and pulling on his shoes, but he doesn’t rush, either. If it were urgent, Coulson would’ve used the intercom instead of sending Fitz as a messenger.

When he gets downstairs, he’s surprised to find that it’s only him, Fitz, and Coulson. Skye and May are nowhere in sight, and neither is Jemma. The lab is empty.

“You wanted to see us, sir?” he asks when Coulson doesn’t say anything. Coulson looks terrible, and Grant’s starting to get a bad feeling.

Coulson opens his mouth, then closes it. The bad feeling increases.

“Grant,” he says. “Leo.”

He and Fitz exchange worried looks. Coulson has never called him by his first name before. No one on the Bus does. No one except—

Jemma. Something’s happened to Jemma, he thinks, and he feels strangely dizzy. The only thing he and Fitz have in common, the only thing that would require them being pulled away from the rest of the team, is Jemma.

“What’s happened?” Fitz demands. He’s figured it out, too. “What’s wrong with Simmons? What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” Coulson says quietly. “She’s been infected.”

Grant grabs at the hood of the SUV as his knees threaten to buckle under him. No. No, it’s not possible. Jemma’s always careful when she’s experimenting, when she’s investigating. She’ll have been wearing gloves the whole time she’s been working with the infected cells from the victims, and he knows she had no plans to go near the helmet.

“How?” he croaks out. He can barely speak. He can barely breathe. He definitely can’t think. All that’s in his head is a constant stream of _notJemmanotJemmanotJemmaIcan’tloseher_.

“She thinks she was infected when she received a shock from the first victim,” Coulson says quietly.

“No,” Fitz says. He sounds like he’s about to cry. “No, that’s not—that was nearly thirty-six hours ago, if she was…No. No, it must’ve been after that, maybe—if she—no.”

“What?” Grant asks him. He’s obviously panicking about something, and Grant feels his own panic surge in response. He doesn’t know how he’s still standing. He doesn’t know how much longer he can manage it.

“We estimated—earlier, we estimated that the virus runs its course in…” Fitz trails off, swallowing.

“Thirty-eight hours,” Coulson finishes for him.

No. No, that’s not possible. Fitz is right—obviously, she must have been infected at a later point. She has more than two hours. She _has_ to have more than two hours.

His eyes swing back to the lab, and he realizes that it’s not empty. He missed Jemma, before, because she’s not standing at one of the tables or sitting at her workstation. She’s on the ground, back against the counter, and she’s watching them with sad eyes.

No. This isn’t happening. He’s standing at the window in three strides, and Jemma’s face crumples when she sees him. She stands and approaches the glass.

“He’s wrong,”  he tells her. “Tell Coulson he’s wrong.”

“I’m sorry, Grant,” she says quietly, her voice shaking. “But it’s true.”

“ _No_ ,” Fitz says, suddenly appearing next to him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Simmons, this is no time for your nonsense. Stop playing around.”

Jemma doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. Behind her, a wrench slowly lifts off of Fitz’s workstation and hangs in the air, silently accusing. Fitz lets out a little sound and falls to his knees. Grant barely even notices.

It’s true. She’s infected. In two hours, if she can’t find a cure, Jemma will…

He can’t even think it. Suddenly he can’t bear to be in the cargo bay. He wants to run far away, as far as possible. He can’t look into his soulmate’s eyes and see the devastation there. He just can’t.

But how can he leave? If she only has two hours…

He has to stay. He’s going to stay right here. All he _can_ do is stay. There’s absolutely no help he can give Jemma in finding a cure, but he can stand right here in the cargo bay, support her, and never let her know how badly he wants to run.

Jemma already knows, though. Jemma always knows. She smiles at him through her tears. _It’s okay_ , she mouths, and gives him a little nod.

He wants to stay. He should stay. But he’s just not strong enough to stand here and watch while Jemma…

So he flees up the stairs, back into the lounge and then his bunk. The intercom clicks on, Coulson summoning May and Skye to the cargo bay, and suddenly his bunk is too small. He waits until he hears Skye and May pass by, then leaves.

He’s angry. He’s desperate. He really wants to hit something, but the punching bag is downstairs, in the cargo bay, right next to the lab where Jemma…

He has no memory of moving, but the next thing he knows his fist is halfway through the wooden wall next to his bunk. There’s a crack, and a sharp pain, and he’s pretty sure he’s broken something in his hand. That’s good, though. It gives him something to focus on. With the pain comes clarity, and he can think straight for the first time since he got the news. He goes into the briefing room and pulls up the lab’s security feed. He can’t be down in the cargo bay, not if he wants to keep his composure, but he can watch from up here. It makes him slightly sick, remembering yesterday, how he stayed in the briefing room and watched her through this very feed because…what? Because he was _squeamish_? Because he didn’t want to watch her dissect someone?

How could he have thought that mattered? How could he have chosen to be in the briefing room, so far away from Jemma, when he had the option of standing right next to her?

He doesn’t have that option now. He can’t be in the lab. It’s under quarantine— _Jemma_ is under quarantine. And while he’d be perfectly willing to break the quarantine, he knows May and Coulson wouldn’t let him. There’s no point in trying.

So he stands in the  briefing room and watches. And as he watches the wrench fall to the ground, he’s struck by another realization. The pulse. All of the victims let out an electrostatic pulse when they…when the virus ran its course. Cross blew the battery out of a vehicle fifty meters away. Diaz shorted out every piece of electronics in the entire firehouse.

If Jemma doesn’t find a cure in time, the Bus’ systems will be knocked out, and the plane will fall right out of the sky.

There are protocols on what to do in these situations. And according to those protocols, Jemma should be tossed from the plane before she…before she can fry the systems.

He’s not going to let that happen. Jemma will _not_ be thrown from the plane. And if one single person on this Bus tries to follow that protocol, he’ll cross them off. No questions. No excuses. _No one_ is going to harm Jemma. No one.

So he stands there, leaning against the table, and watches. He watches as Fitz builds something, as Jemma runs tests, as she brings out mice and infects them with the virus.

As he does, he keeps finding himself rubbing at his right wrist, where his timer used to be. Where it _should_ be. He wishes it still were. If she…if he loses her, that’s it. He’ll have nothing. No red bar, no sign that his soul is gone, no indicator of what he’s lost. No one will be able to know, looking at him, that Jemma is…

But then, how could they not? He thinks he’ll break apart as soon as it happens. He’ll shatter into a million pieces.

It’s difficult to watch the feed, but he has to know. He needs to watch her move around, to keep eyes on her, to know for a fact that, in this moment, she’s still alive. If he still had his timer, he wouldn’t need to watch. He could watch his timer instead, bask in the comfort of the steady green glow. Instead, all he has is the security feed—and the soul bond, which has never felt so weak, so tenuous. It could snap any second.

For a moment, he finds himself hating Garrett. He would still have his timer if Garrett hadn’t put him on this path. If Garrett hadn’t pushed him into becoming a specialist, into giving up his timer in exchange for Garrett’s crusade.

He’s pulled out of those thoughts by Skye entering the briefing room.

“Why aren’t you down there?” she asks. She doesn’t sound accusing. She sounds like she’s been crying.

“I can’t be,” he tells her honestly. “I can’t do anything to help. All I’d do down there is upset Jemma.”

His voice breaks a little on her name, and Skye turns to go, intending to give him his privacy. He doesn’t want her to, though. He’s been standing here, watching, for nearly an hour— _half of Jemma’s time is gone_ —and he doesn’t want to do it alone. Not anymore. His doubts about Skye’s loyalty, his anger at her betrayal, none of that matters any longer. He can’t be alone. Not right now.

“You can stay,” he tells her. “If you want.”

She hesitates, then comes to stand by him. She lets out a slow breath. “I _hate_ this. I just feel so…”

“Helpless,” he finishes.

“Yeah,” she agrees.

Suddenly, he can’t hold back anymore. “I wanted it to be a person,” he says. “Some super-powered psychopath, someone I could hurt, someone I could…punish. _That_ I could do.”

He looks at her briefly, then fixes his eyes back on the screen. “What I can’t do is protect you guys—protect _Jemma_ —from stuff I can’t even see. Or understand. There’s nothing. All I can do is stand here and _watch_ while Jemma is…while Jemma is…”

He can’t say it. He still can’t even think it.

“So what do we do?” Skye asks quietly.

He has to take a few deep breaths to regain control of his emotions. “We wait. And get ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For whatever it is we’re called upon to do,” he tells her. He doesn’t know what that is. He doesn’t know what comes next. He has no fucking idea what to do or how to do it. He’s completely, totally helpless.

It’s nearly half an hour later that something happens. Fitz has spent this whole time right outside the lab (where Grant would be, if he were stronger), and Jemma suddenly approaches him. She looks like she’s had an idea, some kind of breakthrough, and Grant holds his breath when Fitz runs away from the lab, obviously going to fetch something.

He pushes away from the table when Fitz suddenly reappears, breaks the quarantine, and rushes into the lab, holding the case that contains the Chitauri helmet. Obviously, something’s going on. He only manages to spend another ten minutes in the briefing room, and then he can’t stand it anymore.

He goes down to the cargo bay.

Coulson, May, and Skye are already there, standing outside the lab, looking with something akin to hope at the frantic movement within. It’s encouraging, the sudden surge in activity. It means they have an idea that just might work.

There’s still something wrong, though. Well, there’s plenty wrong, but it suddenly strikes Grant that everyone is completely silent. Including Jemma. She’s not chattering on as she works, telling all and sundry about every step she’s taking. She just silently goes about her work.

She’s pale and sweating, and his heart clenches every time she looks towards the cargo bay. As he waits for her to finish whatever it is she’s trying, he has to turn away for a moment. He pinches the bridge of his nose as his eyes burn with unshed tears. This can’t be it. It can’t be. He’s barely had six weeks with her. That can’t be all he gets.

Finally, finally they’re done, and Fitz approaches the last mouse with the injector he built earlier. There’s a little spark as he injects the mouse, then he sets it down.

“I can’t breathe,” Skye whispers.

Neither can Grant. He doesn’t even bother trying. He just stands and waits, his eyes fixed on the mouse. His heart is pounding, his blood rushing in his ears. For a moment, when the mouse seems to continue on as normal, he thinks…

But no. There’s a flash of blue, and suddenly the mouse is floating, just like the others. Just like Cross and Whalen and Diaz.

Just like Jemma will, when she’s dead. Because she’s going to die. There are no more mice for testing, and there’s no more time. It’s been one hundred and fifteen minutes, and she only gave herself one hundred and twenty.

In five minutes, Jemma will be dead.

She’s crying when she approaches the glass, and he is, too. He doesn’t try to stop it, and he doesn’t try to hide it. There’s no point. There’s no point to anything.

Jemma’s speaking, asking Coulson something—something about her parents? He can’t make it out. He feels like he’s underwater, unable to breathe or move or hear. He wonders distantly if this is what Ashton felt like, drowning in that well.

Jemma meets his eyes, and she nods at him. She doesn’t say anything. What is there to say? He’s going to lose her. In five minutes, she’ll be dead. And surely he will be, too, because there’s no way he survives that. No way.

He can’t take it anymore. He presses his hand—his broken hand, it’s almost definitely broken, as badly as it’s bruised and swollen, but what does that matter—against the glass briefly, then turns away. He goes back upstairs.

He’s the worst kind of coward. He’s weak. He’s so completely useless and pathetic. He can’t even be there for his soulmate in the last minutes of her life? He can’t do this one thing right?

No. He really can’t.

The soul bond seems to shake with every step he takes, like it’s sentient, like it knows he’s walking away from Jemma for the last time. Like it’s ready, just waiting to break as soon as the next five minutes are up. He’s going to lose it, too. No more warmth, no more comfort.

No more Jemma.

Seconds after he takes his place in the briefing room again, Skye and Coulson enter.

“She wanted a minute alone with Fitz,” Coulson tells him gently. Skye’s crying too hard to speak.

He wonders distantly where May is, and then the question is answered when she enters from the other door, the one closer to the cockpit.

“Agent Blake is on the line. He wants to know what’s going on,” she says. He knows what that means. Blake wants to know if they’ve followed protocol yet. He wants confirmation that they’ve thrown Jemma from the plane. “If you won’t answer, he’s asked for Ward.”

Suddenly he’s back on the surface, out of the water as he realizes what that means, and for a moment, Grant is so furious that he can’t even breathe. It’s worse than he’s ever felt before—not even the hate he felt that day at the well can compare to the pure rage sliding through his veins. How _dare_ they. Does Agent Blake actually think he can order Grant to toss his soulmate out of the plane? Does SHIELD _actually expect_ Grant to follow their orders like a good little soldier when their orders are for him to _murder_ Jemma?

In that moment, he promises himself that when Jemma’s gone, he’ll tear SHIELD to the ground. Screw Garrett’s plan, screw Garrett’s _life_. No one is more important to him than Jemma. No one.

All day he’s been waiting for a target—someone to punish. And while there’s no one to blame for Jemma getting infected, he can sure as hell punish SHIELD for their response to the infection. He can and he will. He’ll burn SHIELD into nothing. He’ll kill them all.

And he’s willing to bet that Fitz will help him do it.

He’s still trying to regain his calm when an alarm begins to blare. May moves to the computer table and taps at it for a moment.

“Someone’s lowering the cargo hold ramp,” she says.

Grant’s blood turns to ice in his veins. Of course. Of course, Jemma knows the protocol, too. Of course she knows—better than he does—what effect her death will have on the Bus’ systems. Of course she would want to avoid that.

That’s why she let him go so easily, why she asked to be alone with Fitz. She’s going to jump.

He doesn’t even consciously plan it, but he pushes away from the table and leaves the briefing room. Then he’s running, through the lounge and past the Cage. It doesn’t matter that Jemma’s going to die anyway. He can’t let her do this. He can’t let her die, all alone, in the air. He just can’t.

He doesn’t bother with the stairs, leaping over the edge of the catwalk and landing in the cargo bay. Fitz is near the ramp, fumbling with a parachute and mumbling to himself. Grant doesn’t say anything, just rips the parachute from Fitz’s shoulders.

“The anti-serum worked,” Fitz hollers over the sound of the wind, shoving the injector into Grant’s hands. “But she jumped!”

He doesn’t have goggles, or a jumpsuit, or gloves. His boots have hooks on them and he doesn’t even have the parachute all the way on. But none of that matters. There’s a cure, a working cure, and if he can get to her in time she won’t die at all.

He throws himself out of the plane, struggling into the parachute’s other strap as he goes. He buckles it across his chest, then snaps his arms to his side and dives.

It feels like forever before he spots her, falling below him, but it can’t be long because he’s not that much closer to the water below. He angles his body, aiming for her, and uses the throbbing of his broken hand, clutching tightly to the injector, to keep himself calm as he starts to near her.

She’s going to be fine. He’s going to reach her, and inject her, and she won’t die. For once in his life, he’s going to get something right. Just this once.

And miraculously, he does. They’re still far above the water when he reaches her, latching on to her tightly and injecting her with the anti-serum. She immediately goes limp, and he drops the injector to adjust his grip on her, pulling the cord on his parachute as he does.

There’s a jerk as the parachute opens, slowing their descent, and Grant manages to adjust Jemma so that her legs are around his waist, her arms over his shoulders.

There’s a spark, and then a pulse, much smaller than the one from when Diaz died. He can feel the rise and fall of Jemma’s chest against his, and he closes his eyes, weak with relief. He keeps a tight grip on her, clutching hard enough to bruise, as they slowly drift down towards the water.

When they hit it, he immediately disentangles them from the parachute. It’s difficult, holding Jemma above the water and struggling with the parachute at the same time, and he’s just beginning to wonder how he’s going to keep them both above water until she wakes up when he makes a startling discovery.

Fitz, whether by accident or design, grabbed one of the parachutes whose pack can be converted to an inflatable raft. Grant wastes no time in activating the automatic pump. Jemma’s still unconscious, but her heartbeat is strong and her breathing is steady—which is more than he can say for himself.

He can barely breathe at all under the weight of his relief. She’s _alive_. The anti-serum worked, and he caught her in time, and she’s alive. He’s not going to lose her.

As soon as the raft is done inflating, he maneuvers Jemma onto it and then pulls himself up. It’s a delicate process, trying to get on the raft without rocking it enough to knock Jemma off of it, but he manages. Once he’s situated, sitting up on the raft with Jemma’s head in his lap, he looks down at her peaceful face and has to swallow, hard, to keep control of himself. He places two fingers on her neck, against the strong beat of her pulse, and matches his breathing to the steady rise and fall of her chest.

She’s _alive_.

He doesn’t know how long he just sits there, breathing with her and struggling to gain control of his emotions. His watch was fried by the pulse she let out, and while he usually has a pretty accurate internal clock—well, it’s been a really long day.

As he breathes, the anger seems to drain out of him. Some of it is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but enough of it is gone that rational thinking returns. He won’t pull down SHIELD. For one thing, Jemma’s alive, so there’s really no need. For another, it would completely ruin everything he and Garrett have been working for for years. Also, Jemma loves SHIELD. She’s completely loyal to the entire organization, and she would never forgive him for destroying it.

So he’ll leave SHIELD be. But he won’t forget this. This goes onto the list of crimes SHIELD has committed against the people Grant cares about, right next to the time they abandoned Garrett in Sarajevo. And while SHIELD as a whole is not responsible for what happened today, there is one name that stands out—one thing that Grant cannot forgive.

Agent Felix Blake would have ordered Grant to kill his own soulmate, and one way or another, Grant’s going to make sure he pays for that.

\---

After a while, Jemma stirs. He holds his breath as her eyes flutter open, and she blinks at him in surprise.

“Grant?” she asks, struggling to sit up.

“Steady,” he says, helping her. Once she’s mostly upright she looks around, taking in the raft they’re floating on and the vast ocean surrounding them. He can see the exact moment she remembers what happened.

“Oh,” she says. “I’m alive.”

He can’t help it. She sounds so surprised, so _confused_ , to find herself not dead, there is absolutely no way he can stop himself from kissing her. He all but slams his lips against hers, all of his restraint left behind in the cargo bay, and Jemma stills in surprise—but only for a moment. Then she melts against him, her hands clenching in his shirt as he slides one hand into her hair so he can control the angle of the kiss. His other hand cups her shoulder, squeezing it tightly—probably too tightly, even, but he’s helpless to let go.

The kiss might last for hours or it might last for only a second, Grant has no idea, but he doesn’t break it until his lungs are burning for air. He doesn’t pull back far, just enough so that they both have room to breathe.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he gasps against her mouth. “Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” she says between ragged breaths. “I’m so sorry, but I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t take all of you with me. I just couldn’t.”

His hand spasms on her shoulder, and he forces himself to let go when she winces. He pulls back a little further and cups her face in his hands.

“I love you,” he tells her. Jemma’s eyes go wide with surprise. Grant’s surprised at himself, honestly. He’s never said those words before, not sincerely. Not when he wasn’t playing a part. But this time he means it, completely. “You’re my soulmate, and I love you, and I can’t live without you. I _won’t_.”

 “I love _you_ ,” she says. “That’s why I had to do it, don’t you see?”

“Jemma—”

“I couldn’t bear it,” she interrupts. “To die, knowing that I was going to take you with me—to take Fitz and Skye and May and Coulson—how could I stand that? What else could I possibly have done?”

“The anti-serum _worked_ ,” he tells her, suddenly incensed. “If you had just waited a few seconds—”

“I still would have had to jump, Grant! There just wasn’t enough time to fabricate another dose of the anti-serum. Even if I’d gotten dosed with it on the Bus, I still would’ve let out a pulse large enough to knock out all of the systems. The only way to make sure I was far enough from the Bus not to hit it was to jump right then.”

He lets out a slow breath, and his anger disappears as quickly as it came.

“There was no time. What else could I possibly have done?” she asks again.

 “You could have told me,” he says. There are tears slipping down Jemma’s face, and he wipes them away with his thumbs. “You could have let me come with you.”

“No, I couldn’t,” she tells him. “I’m sorry, but I really couldn’t. And you’d have done the same, I know you would.”

He sighs and slumps forward, letting his forehead come to rest against hers.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” she whispers. He closes his eyes.

“You know I can’t.”

“Then you understand, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I just—you scared the hell out of me,” he repeats.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

They sit like that for a while, foreheads pressed together, his hands on her face, hers resting on his knees for balance. Finally, she sits back, and he lets go of her face.

“You just jumped out of a plane for me,” she says, her eyes wide.

He nods, not sure where she’s going with this.

“How did you know?” she asks. “I thought—you went upstairs, didn’t you?”

“To the briefing room,” he tells her. “The alert popped up that the ramp was being lowered, and I knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “Thank you very, very much for saving my life.”

“Always,” he promises. And then, because she should know, he continues, “Fitz was going to, if I hadn’t.”

“What?”

“When I got to the cargo bay, Fitz was putting on this parachute,” he says, patting the raft. “He’d have come after you himself, if I hadn’t taken it from him.”

“Oh, _Fitz_ ,” Jemma chokes out, closing her eyes. “I didn’t mean for him to—I knocked him out, you see.”

“You _what_?”

“Well, there’s no way he’d have let me jump,” she says, and Grant has been wondering about that, honestly. “So I used the fire extinguisher to knock him out once his back was turned. But he woke up and he—he was screaming my name when I jumped.”

He cringes at the thought of it. That’s…horrible. It was bad enough, racing through the plane trying to get to the cargo bay in time, but if he’d had to watch? If he’d been trapped helplessly in the lab, standing by while Jemma…

He owes Fitz. He owes Fitz a lot. He won’t forget it.

“Grant!” Jemma suddenly exclaims. “What happened to your hand?”

He looks down as Jemma cradles his right hand in both of hers. “Oh.”

“Oh? What does ‘oh’ mean?” she demands. She runs her fingers over his knuckles, then moves his fingers gently, obviously trying to determine what kind of damage has been done. It doesn’t even hurt.

Well, it probably does, but he can’t feel it. He’s too relieved. The time he spent thinking she would never fuss over a minor injury again, never look at him with that ‘why won’t you take your health seriously?’ face again, never say his name in that tone again, is too fresh in his mind. There’s nothing but sweet relief in him right now.

“I punched a wall,” he tells her.

Jemma’s eyes go wide in understanding, then soften.

“Well,” she says gently. “That wasn’t very smart, now was it?”

“I think you’ve got us confused,” he says. “You’re the smart one here, not me, remember?”

She rolls her eyes, but before she can reply they’re distracted by an approaching vessel. He’d absently noticed it before, but hadn’t given it much thought, too focused on Jemma. Now he realizes that it must be their rescue. He can see, as the boat gets closer, that it has the SHIELD logo painted on the side, and he’s relieved. Any civilian vessel would have been sure to ask questions, but SHIELD will already know the situation.

Jemma’s alive. She’s alive and she loves him, and she knows that he loves her. Everything in the world is absolutely perfect right now, and he doesn’t even mind that they’re about to have to go through at least twelve rounds of debriefing.

\---

Hours later, back on the Bus, freshly showered, in their own clothes, and fully warm, they stand in Coulson’s office as he yells at Jemma for pulling that kind of stunt. She doesn’t defend herself to him the way she did to Grant, just smiles to herself and nods.

Once they’ve been clearly dismissed (or clearly to him at least, Jemma is a little less sure), he leads the way out of the office and down the stairs. As they walk towards the lounge, he realizes there’s something he’s forgotten to tell her, in all of the emotion of the last few hours. Something important.

He stops and turns to look at her. Her hair is down, a little frizzy from air drying, and she looks so beautiful, so alive, that he completely forgets what he was about to say. He bends down and kisses her for what must be the hundredth time in five hours. He keeps it soft, and brief, well aware that they’re in the middle of a common area, but it’s enough to calm him again.

“I forgot to tell you earlier,” he says when he pulls away. “I still don’t like what you did. But…it was incredibly brave. It was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She smiles up at him for a moment. “Thank you.”

Then her smile fades, and he’s gripped with dread.

“There’s something you should know,” she says, looking strangely sheepish. “I suppose now’s as good a time as any to tell you that I may have misled you earlier. You see, when I gave you back the night-night pistol, I lied. It’s still an ounce off.”

He’d completely forgotten about that. It seems like weeks ago that he was trying to keep a straight face as she tried to deceive him, to cover for the laughter she, Fitz, and Skye couldn’t hide after her _terrible_ impression of him.

He smiles at her. He can’t help it. “I know.”

“You do?” she asks, startled.

“Of course,” he says, and he must still be a little giddy from relief that she survived, because he really can’t help what he does next. He puts his hands on his hips, hunches over a little, and imitates her terrible impression of him. “After all, I’m Agent Grant Ward. I just jumped out of a plane without a parachute on and saved your life.”

Jemma laughs. “Actually, that’s not quite it,” she corrects. “It’s a bit more nasally than that.”

He has to laugh. Really, she’s correcting his impersonation of her impersonating _him_? He has to laugh, or he might actually cry, because he came so _close_ to losing her today. He hears footsteps, and Jemma’s eyes shift past him.

“Oh,” she says. “Hello, Skye.”

Skye doesn’t say anything, just rushes forward and throws her arms around Jemma, who lets out a surprised little ‘oh!’ and hugs her back. Grant missed Jemma’s reunion with Fitz, busy with a debrief as he was, but he’s glad to witness this one. Skye clutches Jemma tightly, and Jemma squeezes her right back, and he can see how much the two women care about one another.

Here, once and for all, seeing the way Skye embraces Jemma after spending all afternoon crying over her…He lets go of his suspicions and his anger. Skye joined this team under false pretenses, but she’s a real, fully invested member now. She’s no threat to them.

In fact, as he watches Jemma smile, he’s honestly grateful for her presence. Skye makes Jemma happy. Their friendship is important to her. Not as important as Fitz’s, maybe, but it’s no less sincere. So he’ll protect Skye, the way he’ll protect Fitz. For Jemma’s sake.

\---

Later, after they’ve dropped the helmet off at the Sandbox, after Fitz has been comforted and Skye has been hugged again and May has given them a very rare smile, Grant and Jemma are given new orders. Mandatory five day traumatic leave, no excuses.

Jemma tries arguing with Coulson, tries to fight it, but Grant is honestly grateful for it. He so very nearly lost her, and those two torturous hours he spent watching her through the monitor won’t be leaving his thoughts any time soon, to say nothing of his desperate dive out of the cargo bay. A little time to rest and recover from this whole experience is exactly what he needs before going back out into the field.

And, he thinks, it will be nice to spend some time alone with Jemma. Five days with no one to interrupt them? Thus far, they’ve been lucky to get five minutes.

So, once Jemma has given in and accepted that there’s no getting out of the traumatic leave, Grant quietly requests that the plane drop them off in Italy on the way back to America. It’s a bit of a detour, but Coulson agrees right away.

“Italy?” Jemma asks as Grant leads her out of Coulson’s office. “What’s in Italy?”

“Good food, great wine, beautiful scenery—” Grant begins to list. Jemma rolls her eyes and gives him a little shove. “I have a place on the Bay of Naples. I think you’ll like it.”

It’s a nice little villa, belonging to one Lorenzo Marchetti, which is one of Grant’s more innocuous aliases. It’s quiet and secluded, with a lovely view—perfect for a nice, romantic getaway. He’s sure it will do wonders for Jemma’s mental health. It’ll definitely do more than his twelfth floor apartment in Paris would.

“Fitz won’t take it well,” Jemma says worriedly. “I certainly wouldn’t, if I were separated from him so soon after he nearly died.”

“We really don’t have much choice,” he points out, but he can definitely understand why Fitz will be upset. “You want me to tell him?”

“No, I’ll do it,” she says, shaking her head a little. “I need to apologize again, in any case. That was a horrible thing to do to him, regardless of the necessity.”

He can’t really argue with that. “I’ll go give May the coordinates, then. Meet you in the lounge later?”

“See you there,” she says, squeezing his good hand. (As it happens, his right hand is not actually broken. It is, however, very badly bruised, and seriously hurting now that his adrenaline has worn off and Jemma is no longer dying.)

He watches her walk away, in the direction of Fitz’s room, and then goes to search out May. She’s at the bar, and as he takes a seat next to her she holds up a glass in wordless invitation.

“No, thanks,” he says. “If I start drinking right now I’ll never stop.”

She tilts her head in understanding. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you need, if not a drink?” she asks, taking a sip of hers.

“Jemma and I have traumatic leave,” he tells her. He puts his back to the bar, resting his elbows against it, so he can survey the room. He looks at the briefing room, wonders if he’ll ever be able to enter it without thinking of those torturous two hours, and is once again glad that they’re going to have a few days away from the Bus. “We’re going to take a little vacation with it. Would you mind setting a course for the airport in Naples?”

The villa is actually just outside of Sant’Agnello, which is a small town outside of Sorrento. It’s close enough that they can go into the city if Jemma so desires, but far enough that they’re not likely to be bothered by too many tourists. From Naples it’s a bit of a drive, nearly an hour, but he thinks Jemma might enjoy the scenery. And in any case, it would be difficult to find a private airstrip which will let them land on such short notice.

May gives him a searching look, then nods. “Of course. Wheels up in five, then. So you can warn Simmons first.”

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, then pushes away from the bar. May’s right, after all—after her very recent skydiving adventure, it might make Jemma nervous to be in the air again. She needs time to prepare.

Jemma and Fitz are sitting on the couch in the lounge. Grant’s not bothered by Fitz’s presence. After all, he did help save Jemma’s life today, and Grant’s about to have Jemma to himself for five days while Fitz does without. He can spare the few hours to Naples.

“Hey,” he says, sitting on Jemma’s other side. She immediately takes his hand. “We’re taking off in five.”

“Okay,” Jemma says with a little nod. “That’s nice.”

He exchanges a glance with Fitz. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Yes, of course,” she says at once. “The Bus is perfectly safe.”

He nods a little, but honestly he’s just humoring her. He’s pretty sure this is going to be the most difficult flight she’s ever taken.

“Only,” she continues, squeezing his hand a little. “Do you think we could spend the flight right here?”

On the couch, away from any windows, he completes silently. With he and Fitz, the people she’s closest to, on either side of her.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” he says. “Fitz?”

“Nope,” Fitz agrees, leaning back further into the couch. “Here is fine. It’s a very nice couch.”

Jemma smiles a little and takes Fitz’s hand in her free one. She leans her head against Grant’s shoulder, and though her breath catches a little as the plane starts up, all she does is squeeze their hands a little tighter.

As they begin their ascent, Fitz distracts her with a question about the anti-serum’s potential for mass production, and Grant sits back and watches as they argue.

Jemma’s alive. His beautiful, brilliant, kind, brave, _amazing_ soulmate is alive and well, and he’s about to have five days alone with her. Five days to decompress, to let go of all of the fear and anger and grief he can still feel within him, swirling behind a wall that wants to break.

He looks down at their clasped hands, at the reassuring green glow of Jemma’s timer. She almost died today, but he caught her, and she’s fine. She’s _fine_.

So why is it that he still has such a bad feeling? Now that his relief has faded and his adrenaline is gone, why has the dread he felt earlier today returned to the front of his mind?

Even as he smiles at Jemma and her enthusiastic conversation with Fitz, he can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. There’s something coming. Something big.

And next time, he’s afraid he might not be able to catch her when she falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a lot of thought, I decided that I'd rather keep this story composed of just the main plot. My question for you, dear readers, is would you be interested in a side-story about Grant and Jemma's time in Italy? Or would you rather I just move on to The Hub? Let me know what you think!


	7. The Hub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant and Fitz are sent into South Ossetia to stop a separatist plot. As one might guess, Grant is Not Pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for all of the comments and kudos! They really mean a lot!
> 
> I posted two side-stories this week, one of them about Grant and Jemma's time in Italy and the other about the rest of the teams' soulmates. So go check those out, if you like!
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

It only takes four hours on the Bus for Grant to start wishing he and Jemma had stayed in Italy. That’s because, four hours in, HQ contacts them with a new mission.

They’re to infiltrate a base in Siberia, where a SHIELD agent is undercover with what Coulson calls “very unpleasant people.” That’s all the detail they get—unpleasant people in Siberia. The rest is above their clearance level, and it’s not that Grant minds it, not after all these years, it’s just.

It’s just that he's had difficulty pulling himself away from Jemma for more than half an hour. He’s not sure he’s ready to leave Jemma behind on the Bus and go into the field—although it’s better than having to bring her _into_ the field—and it would be nice to know why he’s doing it.

Still, a mission’s a mission, and their mission is to pull the SHIELD agent—Andrew Shaw—out of the base.

“I’ll let them capture me,” Coulson decides during the briefing. “Shaw’s undercover as an interrogator, so they’ll bring me straight to him.”

He taps at the table computer and pulls up a blueprint of the base.

“Once I’ve been captured, Ward and May will infiltrate the base. Take out the guards and clear an exit path for us. We need to move quickly, before word can filter down from the top that Shaw’s a traitor. Any questions?”

As far as plans go, it could use some work, and Grant can tell that May’s not happy about it. This would be easier if they had more detail, but such is the nature of compartmentalized security. Grant’s job is to nod in agreement and do what he’s told, but he’s kind of gotten used to the way Coulson runs things, so he can’t help pointing out the flaw in the plan.

“And if they decide to just kill you on the spot, sir?” he asks.

“Then you’ll stop them,” Coulson says. It’s not an order—he says it blithely, like it’s obvious. Like there’s no question that Grant will have his back.

He will, of course. He doesn’t know why the tone makes him so uneasy.

After informing them that they’ll arrive in Siberia in three hours, Coulson dismisses the briefing, and Grant follows Jemma down to the lab. He’s mostly left her and Fitz alone for the last few hours, aside from occasionally checking in to see how she’s doing with the flight. She seems to be all right being back on the Bus, despite everything, and he’s relieved. Still, if he’s about to have to leave her behind for however long this mission takes, he wants to get some time with her now.

Jemma doesn’t say anything when he takes a seat in the corner of the lab, and, surprisingly, neither does Fitz. He doesn’t even roll his eyes or make a face, and Grant takes it as more evidence that the engineer has finally warmed up to him. He’s glad, and not just because Fitz’s constant sniping at him was starting to get on his nerves.

It’s not long before Skye joins them, taking a seat at the counter with her laptop and getting to work doing…something. He should probably be worried about it, since she’s clearly hacking and there’s nothing mission-related to get into, which means it’s recreational hacking, but…he’s not.

The lab remains in comfortable silence for a while, until Fitz and Jemma begin to discuss a project Fitz is working on, something called an I-Mine. Grant’s about to ask about it, as from the specs Fitz has on the holotable it looks like the explosive kind of mine, but Skye breaks in before he gets the chance.

“Sure you wouldn’t rather work on the You-Yours?” she jokes.

Somehow, this begins a conversation consisting solely of puns which, when he doesn’t contribute, turns into a “make Ward laugh” competition. Jemma stays out of it, which is lucky, since he has a hard enough time keeping a smile off of his face around her even when she’s _not_ trying. As it is, it’s difficult to maintain his composure as the puns get progressively more ridiculous.

He almost breaks when Skye tells him that a steak pun is a rare medium well done, partly because of the overly solemn look on her face as she says it, but he’s rescued by Coulson’s appearance in the cargo bay.

Grant can’t imagine what Garrett’s reaction would be if he walked in on his team having a pun competition, but Coulson just looks amused.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “But we’re landing in five. FitzSimmons, we’re gonna need the sleds.”

“Right away, sir,” Jemma says brightly. She starts to head for the storage area, but pauses and turns to point at Grant. “By the way, taking a gun to your watch is _not_ an acceptable way to kill time.”

Grant snorts with laughter and Jemma nods, satisfied, and continues on her way.

“Oh, that’s cheating!” Skye hollers after her.

He shakes his head and stands. As amusing as this has been, it’s time to get to work. He needs to change into his tactical gear and grab a few extra mags from the closet in the briefing room.

“No, seriously, that doesn’t count,” Skye insists as he leaves the lab. “She has an unfair advantage!”

\---

Surprisingly enough, the plan goes off pretty well. Grant and May wait just out of range of the guards, until they hear through Coulson’s comm that he’s being taken to ‘the Interrogator’. Then they take out the guards and infiltrate the base.

There aren’t many guards in the underground base, and the few that they do come across are easy enough to take out. Whoever this group is, they don’t train their people very well.

It’s not long before they’re right outside the door to the room where Coulson’s being held, and once they hear him tip off Shaw, they move in. Grant takes the guard in the corner down in two moves, and the others don’t have any trouble, either. He’s starting to get a little concerned—for this group to draw SHIELD’s attention, they must be a major threat, but the poorly trained operatives they’ve encountered so far wouldn’t threaten a convenience store.

So what do they have that necessitates sending a SHIELD agent undercover?

He’ll probably never know.

Coulson motions Grant to lead the way up the ladder, which he does. He keeps an eye out for any movement as he helps Coulson and Shaw up—in the interest of keeping it, he refrains from offering his hand to May—but there’s no sign of any perimeter guards.

Once Shaw is out, they move to the sleds.

“Uh, where are the dogs?” Shaw shouts over the wind.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Coulson says, and activates his sled. May does the same.

The sleds are one of Fitz’s inventions, and they use a track tethered to the Bus to move. They require steering to get to the original destination, but returning to the Bus takes only a push of a button—a helpful feature, if whoever’s using the sled is too injured to steer. Or see.

It’s only minutes before they’re back in the Bus. The whole mission took maybe forty minutes, but it was long enough that Grant’s relieved to see Jemma waiting in the cargo bay. He can’t kiss her with everyone around, especially when ‘everyone’ includes an outsider, so he contents himself with standing as close to her as possible. He’s really going to have to do something about this inability to be separated from her, or he’s going to be completely useless.

“So,” Coulson says to Shaw as the four of them shake the snow off of their boots and Fitz moves to check the sleds. “You have the information on you?”

“In me,” Shaw corrects. There’s a brief, concerned pause before he clarifies, “It’s on a flash drive in my nasal passage.”

“Can you get it out?” Coulson asks.

“Not without a doctor.”

All eyes go to Jemma, who smiles pleasantly. “Agent Shaw, you can take a seat in the lab. I’ll go get my kit.”

She sounds perfectly unconcerned, apparently not the least bit grossed out that she’s about to extract something from Shaw’s nose. Grant, on the other hand, is disgusted. He’s not typically a squeamish guy (aversion to autopsies aside) but he definitely doesn’t want to see that.

So he heads upstairs with the rest of the team.

“Wheels up in three,” May tells him as Fitz and Skye sit down near a window.

“Where are we headed?” he asks. He didn’t hear Coulson give her any orders in the cargo bay, so she must have been told their next destination on the flight to Siberia.

“The Hub,” she says over her shoulder as she continues to the cockpit.

Great. That means he’s going to have to wear a suit.

After depositing his vest in his bunk and returning his unused mags to the small arms closet (he didn’t use his guns at all on this mission), he takes a seat in the lounge with his tablet. He’s still working on his incident report from last week’s mission, and while, in light of the circumstances, Coulson gave him an extension, he’d like to get it done. Especially since they’re headed to the Hub, where they will doubtlessly be questioned about all of the missions they’ve undertaken on this assignment.

He’s trying to think of a justification for his actions that doesn’t include the word ‘soulmate’ when Coulson comes upstairs, followed by Jemma. Grant gets to his feet, curious to find out exactly what information Shaw had that was so important he felt the need to shove it up his nose to keep it.

Fitz and Skye both offer to look at the data, but Coulson brushes them off.

“I’m afraid this mission’s classified,” he says. “Clearance level eight.”

Oh, well. If the information is classified level eight, at least it explains why they’re going to the Hub. He turns to retake his seat, but of course Skye’s not going to let it go so easy.

“He can just shut us out of the process like that?” she asks.

“Well, he did say the mission is level eight,” Fitz points out.

“And we’re not, so we can’t know about it,” Jemma finishes brightly.

“Right, but this is usually the part where we all stand around the holocom, and we learn about stuff,” Skye argues. “I mean, aren’t we all on the same team?”

“No need to get started on one of your socialist riffs,” Fitz says.

May smiles a little, earning her a disbelieving look from Skye.

“Yeah, SHIELD’s whole infrastructure is based on the hierarchy and compartmentalization of intelligence,” Jemma explains.

“Every agent can’t have the intel on every mission,” Grant clarifies, then follows Jemma and Fitz back down to the lab.

It’s a twelve hour flight to the Hub, which will put them there around 8 am, Bus time. He’ll be glad to get some sleep on the way, since he’s still on Italian time, and it’s currently three in the morning there. That is, if he _can_ sleep. After spending four nights holding Jemma, he doesn’t know how he’s going to do without her.

More importantly, though, he doesn’t know how _she’s_ going to do. Last night was a good night, sure, but there’s no guarantee that this night will be, and he won’t be there to wake her up if she has a nightmare. He can’t be.

He thinks Jemma might be worried about it, too, the way she’s puttering around the lab. He can tell she’s not really doing anything, and she has to be exhausted, too, but she makes no move to head upstairs to bed.

He gives her an hour, but once she starts yawning he pulls her away from her workstation.

“You should go to bed,” he says. “It’s four in the morning in Italy.”

“Oh, I will,” she assures him, but she doesn’t meet his eyes. “I just wanted to finish this up, first.”

She tries to turn away, but he puts his hands on her shoulders to keep her in place.

“Jemma,” he says gently. “You’ve been cleaning that microscope for the past twenty minutes.”

She takes a deep breath and looks away, towards Fitz, who’s pretending not to listen.

“You worried about nightmares?” Grant asks quietly.

She nods. He rubs his thumbs along her collarbones as he considers the situation. Coulson made it very clear, weeks ago, that he expects Grant and Jemma to remain professional at all times while they’re on the Bus. Sharing a bed, even without sex, is not at all professional. But is he willing to abandon Jemma to her nightmares in the name of following orders?

No. Of course he’s not.

“Come on,” he says, letting go of her shoulders to take one of her hands. He leads her upstairs, and she starts shaking her head.

“Grant, I really don’t think—” she starts, but breaks off when he comes to a stop outside of his bunk.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he says.

She darts a look at his bunk, then glances around the lounge like she’s expecting to find Coulson lying in wait. Then she smiles, just a little.

“Let me go brush my teeth,” she says.

“Right behind you,” he agrees. He watches her head for her bunk to get her toothbrush, and then ducks into his own to do the same—and to double check that the window shade is pulled down.

\---

Sharing the bed in his bunk is a complicated process. The bed is so tiny that their only options are for one of them to squish against the wall or for Jemma to lie pretty much on top of Grant. They choose the second option, and it’s not that he minds it—she’s tiny, she basically weighs nothing—but it’s not as comfortable as stretching out. Still, it’s worth the slight discomfort to have her there. Especially as she does, in fact, have a nightmare.

It’s a lot milder than the one from the other night, but it’s still enough to leave her shaking and crying. He mentally curses the Chitauri in every language he knows and rubs her back soothingly as she cries into his chest.

When her tears stop (which, thankfully, only takes a few minutes), he tucks some of her hair behind her ear.

“Wanna talk about it?”

She rearranges herself so her head is pillowed on his shoulder and begins tracing patterns on his chest with her right hand. “It wasn’t nearly so bad this time. None of the rest of you were in danger. You weren’t even there. It was just me, falling. Nothing like the other dreams.”

“Still pretty scary, though,” he observes.

“Yes,” she agrees quietly.

“Think you can get back to sleep?”

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Mm, I think so.”

She’s still tracing patterns on his skin, and if she keeps it up he’s going to have his own problems, so he catches up her wrist and, impulsively, lifts it to press a kiss to her timer.

“Sweet dreams,” he says quietly.

“You, too.”

\---

She sleeps well for the rest of the night, and she doesn’t even twitch when his alarm goes off to wake him for his morning training. He’s tempted to just ignore it and go back to sleep, enjoy having her sleeping peacefully on top of him, but he’s skipped way too many work outs in the last week. Also, he’s willing to bet that Skye didn’t even look at the punching bag while he was gone, and he needs to be there to make sure she does _her_ morning training.

It takes some careful maneuvering in the cramped space of his bunk, but he’s eventually able to slide out from under Jemma and resettle her on the bed. He changes into his workout clothes quickly and tucks his socks into his sneakers. He’ll put them on in the lounge; he doesn’t want to sit on the bed and risk waking Jemma. Still, he can’t resist the urge to brush some of her hair away from her face when he pulls the covers up to her shoulders.

He spends a moment just enjoying the sight of her in his bed, then slips out of his bunk and pulls the door shut behind him.

After a brief stop in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and put on his shoes, he heads down to the cargo bay. It’s strange to do his training without Jemma sitting on the stairs or bustling around the lab. He doesn’t like it.

Once again, it’s not long before he starts itching to go find Jemma and make sure she’s okay. He reminds himself that they’re on the Bus, in flight, and that absolutely no one could have gotten on to hurt her. She hasn’t been anywhere near alien artifacts or suspicious bodies or anything that could put her at risk of infection. She spent the last eight hours sleeping in his arms.

She’s fine. He has to accept that she’s fine and that letting her out of his sight won’t change that, or he’s never going to be able to do his job.

So he forces himself to stay downstairs and finish his training, even though he can barely breathe with how worried he is about Jemma. It becomes a mantra—she’s fine, she’s fine, she’s fine—as he goes through his routine. And as he leads Skye through hers, once she comes downstairs. It takes extreme strength of will, but he doesn’t even cut the session short. He makes Skye do every last push-up she’s supposed to, even as he bites at the inside of his cheek to keep himself from repeating his mantra aloud.

The pain helps a bit, helps him focus, and he manages not to run up the stairs when Skye’s training is finally done. He even lets her go up them first, and he somehow keeps his steps casual as he heads for his bunk.

He slides the door open to find Jemma still in bed, exactly as he left her, and his tension melts away instantly. She looks so peaceful and so lovely that he hates to disturb her, but she really needs to get up—for one thing, they’ll be at the Hub soon, and for another, she can’t get caught sleeping in his bunk.

He really doesn’t think anyone else on the team will appreciate the sight the way he does.

\---

An hour later, they’ve landed in the Hub and are making their way to the lobby to pick up their badges from the security desk. After a brief thanks for the rescue, Shaw split from them in the hangar, and headed for the Security Division for a debrief.

As they approach the main lobby, Grant sticks close to Jemma’s side and listens silently as she and Fitz exchange incomprehensible babble about what they’re hoping to see in the Tech Corridor. Her whole face is lit up in excitement, and he smiles to see it. He’s not fond of the Hub, and not just because of the annoying dress code, but he’s glad she’s happy.

Skye has been staring around in shock, and as they reach the security desk, she finally shakes it off enough to speak.

“Didn’t realize Big Brother was this…big,” she says.

“Oh, this is nothing,” Jemma assures her cheerfully. “Wait until you see the Triskelion.”

“Everyone’s wearing the same suit,” Skye points out. Grant rolls his eyes. “Someone tell me why, please.”

They all ignore the request as they take their security badges from the desk. Skye moves forward to speak to Coulson, and Jemma turns to look at Grant.

“So,” she says, sliding her hand into his. “You know that Fitz and I are anticipating visiting the Tech Corridor. What will you be doing while we’re here?”

He squeezes her hand a little, happy to have the contact—even if he can see Marcus Wright, an old classmate from the Academy, staring in shock at the sight of _Grant Ward_ holding hands with someone. He’s pretty sure Wright would faint from sheer surprise if Grant smiled at him, but he resists the urge. (He never used to be such a troublemaker. He blames Coulson.)

“I’ll probably join you,” he finally says. “Not much for me here.”

“You don’t want to visit the Security Division and see what sort of weapons they’re working on?” Fitz asks, surprised.

“Security’s never as eager to share their toys as Tech is,” he tells him, then returns his attention to Jemma. “I might drop by the Ops center, see if anything’s on, but other than that…”

“Well, you’re welcome to join us,” she assures him happily.

Actually, it’s not necessary for him to drop by the Ops center, because that’s exactly where Coulson leads them. Jasper Sitwell is waiting for them outside the security checkpoint, and seeing him is like having a bucket of cold water thrown into his face.

It’s not like Grant’s _forgotten_ that he’s working for HYDRA, or that he’s technically spying on the team. Of course not. It’s his mission, and his mission is his focus. It’s just that, in the wake of everything that’s happened recently, he’s let it…slide, a little. He hasn’t even _attempted_ to increase Coulson or May’s trust in him. For the last week, he hasn’t been concerned with anything but Jemma’s well-being.

Seeing Sitwell, someone he knows is HYDRA (although Sitwell doesn’t know the same about him) is a stark reminder of what exactly he’s doing here. It takes a few seconds for him to regain his calm, and he tunes in to the conversation to hear Sitwell saying that he and May are welcome to join the briefing. Which means they’re _expected_ to join the briefing.

He squeezes Jemma’s hand once and lets go. “Have fun in Tech.”

“We will,” she promises. “Enjoy your briefing.”

“Not likely,” he tells her, then follows May into the Ops center.

Coulson doubles back briefly to speak to Skye, who attempts to follow them and gets caught in the checkpoint, and then they proceed silently to the situation room.

Victoria Hand is waiting for them, and after brief introductions, she gets straight to business.

“The intel you recovered from Agent Shaw tells us that a separatist group from South Ossetia has built a weapon called _esbitumyut_ ,” she tells them.

“The…overkill device?” Grant translates, unimpressed. Really?

“A little dramatic for my taste,” Hand agrees. “I imagine something was lost in translation.”

Or the separatist group is filled with megalomaniacal idiots with delusions of grandeur, but who is he to judge?

“We've intercepted chatter that tells us they plan to use the weapon in the next twenty-four hours to declare their independence from Russia and Georgia,” Hand continues. She clicks the remote in her hand, and pictures appear on the screen. “We believe it creates sonic vibrations powerful enough to trigger weapons from a great distance— _anything_ , from the missiles on a helicopter to a nuclear warhead sitting in its silo.”

“So if we move on them, they could use our own weapons against us,” Coulson concludes.

Grant’s pretty sure he knows where this is going, and he takes a deep breath to steel himself for it. This is his job. This device presents a risk to the safety of the world at large, including Jemma. It will be difficult to leave her behind, but he has to do his job. She’ll be safe, here at the Hub. It’s a secure facility with stringent security protocols. She and Fitz probably won’t even leave SciOps the entire time he’s gone.

“Exactly,” Hand agrees. Her gaze switches to Grant and May. “That's why I need a two-man team to sneak across the disputed border undetected, break into the separatist stronghold, and disable the weapon in the next twenty-four hours.” She looks back at Coulson. “And you have two people who fit my bill.”

Grant exchanges a ‘yeah, we can do that’ sort of look with May. He’s honestly a little confused, as this assignment could easily be completed by a strike team, rather than stealing away Coulson’s specialists, but, well. Theirs is not to question why, and all that. He pushes it away, along with all of his worry for Jemma.

“Not a problem,” May says simply.

“I was in Georgia during the incursion in ’08,” he tells Hand. “I still have contacts on the South Ossetian border.”

Uri will be glad to help him out, for the right price.

“And you’ll have to use them,” Hand says. “But we don’t  have specs on the device, so I need someone on the team who can identify and dismantle it on-site.”

Wait.

“Do you mean—?” he begins, but he can’t even finish the thought.

“I think she does,” Coulson says, mystified.

“I do,” Hand agrees. “Agent Fitz will be the other member of your two-man team.”

She doesn’t give them a chance to protest, just hands Coulson a flash drive—presumably containing the details they _do_ have.

“Time’s wasting,” she says. “And it’s a long way to South Ossetia. You’d better get moving. There’s a transport waiting for you in the hangar.”

Grant numbly follows Coulson and May out of the situation room. Shit. As if he weren’t going to have a hard enough time leaving Jemma behind in the first place…

She nearly died last week. She went through a terrible, traumatic experience less than a week ago, and now he and Fitz—the people on the team she’s closet to, the ones she’s been leaning on for support—are going to have to leave her. They’re going to have to leave her to go into danger, far away where there’s nothing she can do to help them. For Jemma, who’s been having nightmares about them dying, this is going to be beyond terrible.

But this is his job, and Jemma’s traumatic leave is up. If he asks for someone else to be sent in his place, HQ might decide he’s emotionally compromised and revoke their regulation exemption, removing him from the team entirely. There’s nothing he can do about this.

They find Jemma, Fitz, and Skye outside of the security checkpoint for SciOps. Or, to be more specific, Jemma and Skye are outside the security checkpoint. Fitz is fighting with the doors. Any other time it might be amusing, but right now it’s just a reminder that he’s about to take Jemma’s completely untrained best friend into an unstable region.

\---

They wait until they’re back on the Bus to tell the rest of the team about the mission. Of course, they can’t share everything, not with the mission classified like it is, but what they can share is enough to make Jemma go pale. Fitz goes pale, too, but he looks resolved.

They really don’t have much time, so they split up to pack after Grant gives Fitz a few instructions on what to bring. Jemma looks torn, so he waves her after Fitz. He’s got some other things to take care of before he gets to packing. Namely, a conversation with May.

He knows May’s not the type to bother with useless pleasantries, so he gets right to the point when he finds her in the kitchen.

“I need a favor.”

She leans back against the counter and crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

“Keep an eye on Jemma while I’m gone. Please,” he says. He scrubs a hand over his face. “I know she’ll be safe at the Hub, and it’s ridiculous, but—”

“No,” May interrupts. “I understand.”

She’s looking at him differently—sympathetically, he realizes, and suddenly he remembers that her soulmate is untrained, too. He’s not throwing himself into field work like Jemma does, but he’s got no way to defend himself if he gets in trouble.

As a fellow specialist with a noncombatant soulmate, May just might be the only person on the Bus who really _understands_ the constant worry Grant feels, the itch that had been in his skin even before Jemma got infected. And from the look on her face, May seems to be realizing the same thing about him.

“I’ll look after Simmons,” she assures him, and leaves the kitchen.

His first thought is simple relief—she understands, so she’ll look after Jemma, even in a place as safe as the Hub. His second thought is that he can use this.

He’s given some thought to how he might gain May’s trust, and in a world where neither of them had found their soulmates yet, he might have slept with her. But they have found their soulmates, so it’s not a viable option, and he doesn’t have many other plays to gain the trust of someone like May. But this—he can use this, this unexpected common ground they share, people trained to expect the worst who are bound to people that have no idea what the ‘worst’ really is.

He can use this. But he doesn’t want to.

It feels wrong. Even the thought of _using_ his connection to Jemma that way makes him feel a little sick. It shouldn’t. The mission is supposed to be his priority. He needs to hurry up and gain the team’s complete trust so that he can be let in on the secret of Coulson’s survival. Garrett’s life depends on it.

_The_ mission _is everything_ , Garrett’s voice whispers in his ear. She _is a distraction_.

He shakes it off and heads for his bunk. That was just a dream. Just a nightmare, torment from his mind designed to punish him for his weakness when Jemma was infected. Garrett understands the importance of a soulmate, and he would never ask Grant to kill Jemma. That’s not a weakness.

But it _is_ a weakness not to take advantage of this, the only common ground he’s found with May, aside from their shared training. It’s to save Garrett’s life, he reminds himself as he changes into clothes that won’t stand out in the region. There’s nothing wrong with taking advantage of his connection to Jemma to help save Garrett’s life. She’d approve, if she knew the circumstances. Of course she would.

The go-bag he keeps in the bottom of his closet already has most of what he’ll need, so packing doesn’t take long at all. He’s just zipping up his bag when his door slides open. He turns and looks at Jemma as she steps into the bunk, and she gives him a painfully false smile.

“Have you finished packing already?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Pretty much ready to go.”

“That’s good,” she says, nodding a little. She looks at his bag, and her smile wavers a little. “Do you have everything you need? I could get you—”

She breaks off when he pulls her to him in a hug. She immediately hugs him back, her grip desperately tight, and takes a deep breath.

“We’ll be fine,” he tells her quietly. “I’ll take care of Fitz. I’ll bring him back safe.”

She pulls back a little. “And yourself.”

“What?”

“You need to take care of yourself, too. Bring _both_ of you back safely,” she insists.

He really shouldn’t make any promises, but how can he not?

“I will,” he says. “I’ll bring us both back.”

She goes on her tiptoes, and he bends down to meet her in a kiss. He slides both of his hands in her hair, holds her in place, and she clutches at his shirt. The kiss is frantic, desperate, and the fact that it reminds him so strongly of the kiss they shared on the raft, after he caught her, makes him feel that much worse.

She nearly died a week ago, and he’s abandoning her to face that on her own, and taking her best friend with him.

She’s crying when they pull apart, silent tears falling down her face as she looks up at him.

“Please come back.”

“We will,” he says. He brushes her tears away, then presses a kiss to her forehead. “Please don’t cry.”

“You have to come back,” she insists, swiping impatiently at her face. “Or you won’t get your sandwich.”

He…has no idea what that means.

“I was going to make Fitz his favorite sandwich to take along,” she explains, apparently seeing his confusion. “But, it has a very strong scent, and I thought, what if you’re being tracked? You can’t have a prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella sandwich on you if you’re being tracked, you’ll be caught for certain.”

Despite the circumstances, he can’t help but smile. That’s definitely his influence shining through.

“So I promised Fitz I’d make his favorite sandwich as a reward,” she continues. “When he comes back safe and unharmed.”

“So all I have to do is not get injured, and you’ll make me my favorite sandwich?” he asks, a little amused. “Do you even know what my favorite sandwich is?”

She narrows her eyes at his teasing. “Prosciutto, capicola, and soppressata with provolone.”

He leans back a little, surprised.

“You told me,” she reminds him. “During breakfast, the day after we met.”

“So I did,” he says. He’s beyond touched that she actually remembers that, an offhand comment made in a conversation they had a month and a half ago, and he can’t resist the urge to bend down and kiss her again.

“So you understand,” she says when they part. “You can’t get injured or you won’t get a sandwich.”

“Understood,” he confirms. His watch beeps, and he lets go of her to pick up and shoulder his bag.

“It’s time to go?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. The glow of her timer catches his eye, and he brings her wrist up to kiss it, the way he did last night. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she says. She’s tearing up again, and he hates it, but he’s knows there’s no comfort he can offer, not yet. All he can do is bring Fitz home safely. “Please be safe.”

“We will,” he says, and leads the way out of his bunk. He can see Coulson and May in the briefing room, obviously waiting for him, and he looks down at Jemma. “I need to talk to Coulson.”

“I’ll go…say goodbye to Fitz,” she says, her voice unsteady. “Again.”

She steps closer to him and slides her arms around his waist, squeezing tightly, for just a moment. He returns it with one arm, using the other to keep his bag from swinging forward and hitting her.

“Goodbye, Grant,” she says quietly.

“Goodbye, Jemma.”

\---

In the transport to Europe, he goes over the plan with Fitz a few times. Fitz is obviously nervous, asking a lot of questions, and Grant does his best to answer them all patiently. He’s tense—over leaving Jemma behind, over taking an untrained scientist into the field, over everything that might go wrong—so it’s difficult, but he manages.

The transport is a high-speed Quinjet, capable of flying much faster than the Bus, so it’s not long at all before they’re landing in the Caucasus Mountains. There’s a jeep there, waiting for them, and a SHIELD agent who hands over the keys with a solemn nod.

Grant takes the front seat, starts up the jeep, and heads for Uri’s bar.

Fitz is fidgeting nervously next to him, occasionally muttering to himself, and Grant takes a deep breath. He needs to keep Fitz calm. Science questions usually work as a distraction, but he doesn’t know enough about science to come up with a good enough question to distract Fitz off the top of his head. So he goes for the one thing they have in common: Jemma.

As expected, Fitz is all too happy to share stories of working with Jemma. Most of them are apparently the you-had-to-be-there type, because they’re really not that funny, but at least Fitz is sufficiently distracted and no longer nervous. He’s actually laughing as they finally pull up outside of the bar, two hours later.

Grant turns off the car and waits until Fitz finishes the story, then asks, “Do you have the beacon?”

“Yeah,” Fitz says, patting his bag.

“Okay,” he says. “Listen, my contact is Uri Dubrovsky. We’re going to pay him to get us across the border. We go back, but he doesn’t like new people. I’m going to introduce you as my soulmate’s brother—he’s a romantic, he’ll like that—but you still should keep your head down. Okay?”

“Okay,” Fitz says with a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

Of course, things don’t go nearly as simply as that. He really should have called to check in on Uri sometime in the last five years, because apparently he’s dead, and no one in the crowd at the bar is mourning him.

Ironically, the woman in charge suspects them of being separatists, since Uri was a separatist. They tell her they aren’t, but of course she’s not just going to take their word for it, and she dismisses them to go back to watching the game.

Grant swears as he struggles with the ropes binding his wrists. The thugs who tied them up knew what they were doing, and obviously identified Grant as the more dangerous of the two of them; there’s no way for him to get out of these ropes without hurting Fitz.

“Do you have a plan?” Fitz hisses at him.

“Only the kind that involve my terrifyingly vague questions,” he replies sardonically.

“Okay, well, I have a plan,” Fitz says, ignoring his tone.

Grant stops struggling with the ropes and looks at him. “You have a plan?”

“I have a localized EMP,” Fitz says. “I can use it to knock out their power. They’ll be missing the game, so I’ll offer to fix it. Then they’ll have to let us go.”

It’s a ridiculous plan with very little chance of working. But it doesn’t involve Grant causing harm to Fitz, which is something he’d really like to avoid. He takes a deep breath.

“Do it.”

Miraculously, the plan actually works. Fitz even manages to charm the boss, Marta, enough to earn a nickname from her. Fixing the power in time for the crowd at the bar to watch the game gets them enough good will to negotiate—or at least, it gets _Fitz_ enough good will to negotiate, and he negotiates them across the border for two million rubles.

(Grant’s really glad it’s not his money they’re dealing with.)

As soon as the game ends, they’re in the back of a truck heading across the border.

“Good work,” Grant says as they pull away from the bar.

“Did that hurt?” Fitz asks, a little snarkily. He looks appreciative of the praise, though, and he really does deserve it.

“That was a good plan. Simple, well-executed, and it got the job done,” Grant says. “It _was_ good work.”

“Well,” Fitz says, a little uncomfortably. He avoids eye contact by pulling a hat out of his bag and putting it on. “You’re welcome, then.”

He’s about to change the subject when the truck slows.

“We’re stopping,” Fitz says. “Why are we stopping?”

Grant can hear muffled shouting, but it’s not clear enough to make out the words.

“Stay here,” he orders. “I’ll check it out.”

But he’s barely moved an inch when gunshots ring out, and he resumes his place against the barrels.

“Okay, maybe we’ll both stay here,” he corrects himself.

He knows that’s not a viable plan, though. The gunshots stop, and he thinks fast. They have the element of surprise at the moment, and they need to take advantage of it. Whoever’s shooting will definitely check the back of the truck, and when they do he and Fitz will be pinned down with nowhere to run. He needs to take the shooters (presumably border guards) out before they reach the truck. He looks at the barrels sitting on the very edge of the truck bed. If he kicks them out and shoots them, it may provide enough of a distraction for him to take out the guards before they get close enough to pin he and Fitz down.

It’s not foolproof, but it’s the best plan he’s got.

“Keep your head down,” he warns Fitz.

“What are you going to do?” Fitz whispers.

He doesn’t have time to explain the plan, though. He just pulls out his gun, takes a deep breath, and kicks the barrels over the edge of the truck.

The plan works; the barrels explode spectacularly, enough to knock down two of the border guards and distract the third enough for Grant to take his rifle and knock him out with it. But another jeep is pulling up the path; it’s time to get out of here.

“Fitz!” he yells over his shoulder. “More border patrol!”

“I’m already moving!” Fitz yells back. “Hurry up!”

He drops the assault rifle (it’s too bulky, it’ll make too much noise as he carries it) and runs after Fitz. Grant’s taller—and trained in running while carrying a bulky pack—so it doesn’t take him long to catch up to Fitz.

“Follow me,” he shouts, and begins zigzagging through the fields.

They find a river, and he leads Fitz through it for a while, remaining in the water for nearly twenty minutes. Fitz complains, but it’ll throw any dogs off their scent, and that’s more important than Fitz’s comfort.

Eventually, as the sun is setting, they find a drainage pipe, large enough to hide in and far enough from the truck they left behind that he feels safe resting in it. He motions Fitz in, and the engineer collapses, panting.

They can’t wait too long since, as Fitz points out, they need to disable that device, but Fitz really is in no shape to keep running. And even if he were, they’re far outnumbered, and the border patrol has jeeps and dogs. They’re better off waiting until the search dies down.

Grant crouches just inside the pipe, his gun at the ready, and settles in to wait.

\---

“Why do you think SHIELD sent in just the two of us?” Fitz asks eventually, after the sun has set and it’s fully dark.

“I don’t know,” he says. He’s honestly still a little confused about that, himself. Sure, Fitz has the technical know-how to disable the device, and Grant has the skills to get him to the device safely, but. There are plenty of combat-trained scientists on SHIELD’s payroll, and plenty of specialists that aren’t already attached to a field team.

It’s a little fishy, actually.

“Said they needed a guy like you and a guy like me,” he continues.

Fitz sighs and presses a hand to his stomach. “I really wish Simmons had just given me that sandwich, instead of saving it as a reward. I’m bloody starving.”

“Good thing she didn’t,” Grant says, unzipping his jacket. “The dogs would’ve smelled it.” He pulls a protein bar out of the inside pocket and hands it to Fitz. “Here. It’s odorless.”

Fitz examines it doubtfully, but unwraps it and takes a bite.

“Simmons said that,” he says around his mouthful. “That bit about dogs smelling us. Did she get that from you?”

“We had a lot of time to talk, in Italy,” he says, zipping his jacket back up. “I guess she picked up on some things.”

He keeps his tone casual, but the tension he’s been ignoring all day is suddenly all he can think about. It’s been hours since they left the Hub. Is she okay? Is she asleep? _Can_ she sleep?

He managed to keep his worry for her compartmentalized for this long, but the mere mention of her name has brought it all back.

“How do you think she’s doing?” Fitz asks quietly, apparently picking up on the direction of his thoughts. Or maybe he’s been worrying about her this whole time, too.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” he says calmly, even though he’s sure of no such thing. “She’s got Skye to keep her company, and I asked May to keep an eye on her, before we left.”

“Right,” Fitz says, crinkling up the empty wrapper. “Of course you did. Mister Save-the-Day, of course you’ve got the bloody Calvary watching Simmons.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Grant asks, honestly taken aback.

“Oh, come on,” Fitz snaps. “You obviously get off on it, being the guy who always gets to throw the last punch, who always swoops in to save the girl. Always have a back-up plan, don’t you? May watching Simmons, food for me to eat, enough money to pay that ridiculous fee I negotiated, taking out those border guards.”

Okay. Well.

Grant thinks there are two issues here. From the first part, he’s guessing Fitz has some unresolved issues over Grant being the one to save Jemma last week. Even though Fitz played a major part in creating the antidote and was perfectly willing to go out after Jemma, apparently Grant ‘swooping in’ and doing it instead has left Fitz feeling a little inadequate.

But he has no idea where the part about the back-up plan and the food  and the border guards came from. Plans and violence are literally his entire job description.

“Before we left, Coulson told me to look out for you,” he tells Fitz, deciding to tackle that issue first. “Taking out the border guards, that was what I was doing.”

Fitz looks away.

“It was your plan that got us into the country,” Grant reminds him. “And as for the food and the back-up plan? That’s my job. I’ve been on a hundred of these ops. I know what to expect. I know what I need.”

“And May?” Fitz asks.

Grant bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to admit to his weakness. But Fitz will understand, he thinks. And it may help things between them. He wants to be able to get along with Fitz. Not because of Garrett’s plan—although it will help that, too—but because he just wants to.

“May wasn’t planning,” he admits lowly. “May was panic.”

“Panic?” Fitz echoes, dubious.

“I haven’t been able to let Jemma out of my sight,” he continues. “After what happened. If I’m away from her for longer than twenty minutes, I panic. I start thinking of all the things that could be happening to her. Even when I know it’s ridiculous, even when she’s just in the next room, I completely freak. Being sent away from her this long? Asking May to look after her was the only thing I could think of that might help.”

Fitz stares at him, taken aback. He obviously has no idea how to respond.

“And about what you said, the swooping in thing,” Grant says, figuring he might as well get it out while Fitz is speechless. “I know—”

He breaks off, catching sight of his watch. There’s no time for this.

“We’ll talk later,” he says. “We need to move if we’re going to make it there in time.”

“Right,” Fitz agrees after a long moment.

\---

It’s difficult, crossing the rocky terrain on foot, but it becomes a little easier once the sun rises. Fitz is completely out of breath, so there’s no more talking, and Grant is, surprisingly, not happy about that. Without the distraction of conversation, there’s not enough to focus on to keep him from worrying about Jemma.

It’s ridiculous. He’s completely aware that it’s ridiculous. She’s got May and Coulson to watch her back, even if she needs it, which she _doesn’t_ , since she’s in a completely secure facility with a state-of-the-art security system which not even Stark has been able to crack. (Though not from lack of trying, or so Grant hears.)

There’s absolutely no danger at the Hub. There are HYDRA agents there, of course, but they’re all undercover as SHIELD and have no reason to be interested in Jemma.

She’s fine. She’s just fine.

He spends the whole hike going around in circles about it, trying to convince himself she’s fine and then envisioning all sorts of terrible things that might be happening to her at this very moment. It’s ridiculous and pointless and eventually he has to shove it all away, compartmentalize it again, to focus back on the mission.

The plan calls for them to use a mag pouch—a sort of camouflage sleeping bag big enough for two people—to hitch a ride into the compound where the device is being kept. It means they have to be in position early enough to hide themselves before the truck is in sight of the compound, and surprisingly, they manage it. The guards and the dogs were a setback, but luckily there’s plenty of wiggle room built into the plan, for exactly that reason.

They spread out the mag pouch when they reach the road and climb into it. It’s a tight fit, but Grant’s had worse.

He considers continuing the conversation from earlier, dealing with Fitz’s issues with him, but he doesn’t have the chance. He feels the road vibrating under him, and when he listens, he can hear the truck coming.

“Truck’s coming,” he hisses. “Zip up the mag pouch!”

\---

It’s not a fun ride, but they make it to the compound without being caught. When they reach the door of the specific building they want, he signals for the extraction.

There’s no response. He tries again, a horrible suspicion clawing up his throat, and once again, there’s no response.

Realization dawns.

He thinks of Garrett, sitting across from him in that forest in Wyoming, telling him about being left without support in Sarajevo, and feels a little sick. He’s spent his entire career with SHIELD keeping that story in the back of his mind. He always has a back-up, his own private extraction plan he doesn’t tell the higher-ups about, just in case. He’s never had to use it, though, and apparently he’s grown lax.

What was it Fitz called him earlier? Mister Save-the-Day?

Coulson’s team has made him soft. _Jemma_ has made him soft. He has no back-up plan waiting, not this time. He’d thought he could trust SHIELD, just this once. He knows he has no particular value to SHIELD, but surely they wouldn’t send the golden boy of engineering to his death.

Except apparently they have.

He should’ve known. After how eager SHIELD was to sacrifice Jemma last week, he should have _known_ they would be willing to sacrifice Fitz, too. Now they’re trapped in hostile territory, about to sabotage the separatists’ main leverage, and as soon as they do that, SHIELD will move in.

They’ll be surrounded. Caught. Killed.

Fitz is talking, but the words can’t reach Grant. He can’t understand them through the storm of rage and grief that’s filled him.

He should have known. He _did_ know.

He’s furious, thinking of Fitz dying like this. Sacrificed for SHIELD’s greater cause. Just a number, an acceptable casualty. And he thinks of Jemma, left without her soulmate _and_ without her best friend. Her timer will go red when Grant dies, but she’ll always wonder about Fitz. And she’ll be alone.

He can’t let that happen. He can’t let Fitz die.

One of them has to disable the device. He doesn’t want to do SHIELD any favors, but the truth is that the overkill device really is too dangerous to leave in anyone’s hands. So he needs to get Fitz to show him how to disable it, then he’ll send Fitz away. It’ll be difficult for an untrained engineer to find his way back to friendlier territory, especially since he doesn’t speak any of the local languages, but at least he’ll have more of a chance than if he stays here.

He takes a deep breath and puts it away. He shoves it all down—the rage, the grief, the guilt that he didn’t anticipate this, that he’s going to leave Jemma behind—and he moves. Fitz is still talking, but Grant ignores him, circles around to the other door and enters the building. There are two guards in the hallway, easily taken out, and he opens the door for Fitz.

“Hurry. Inside.”

He leads the way through the halls, on guard, but they don’t come across anyone else, and they reach the overkill device less than five minutes after entering the building. Good thing, too, as they’re running out of time.

“This must be it,” he says. He scans the room, but there are no guards. Not a good sign, he thinks.

Fitz examines the device for a moment.

“Weird,” he says, then raps his knuckles against the device. “Core must be inside here, that’s what’s important.” He starts to take his backpack off. “The piping around it just serves to amplify and direct the sound, to trigger munitions from a distance.”

“Doesn’t look like it could take a jet out of the sky,” Grant muses.

“Well you should know by now, Agent Ward, that looks can be deceiving,” Fitz says, and starts unscrewing the panel covering the core. It’s not said as sharply as it could be, and Grant hopes his little spill session in the drainage pipe helped. He’s going to need Fitz to trust him.

They pull the panel off to reveal the inside, which is glowing and humming. It’s…pretty disturbing, actually.

“This…is gonna take a while,” Fitz says.

They don’t have a while. “You have ten minutes.”

“I thought you’d say five,” Fitz says mildly, and gets to work.

Grant waits until it looks like Fitz is almost finished, then asks to be shown the final steps so he can get it done. Fitz wants to stick to the plan, though, so Grant is forced to tell him the truth.

“Extraction plan’s a bust,” he says. Fitz stops working and turns to look at him. “Exfil team didn’t make contact. Once you take that thing apart and I set off the remote beacon, we’re on our own. You should go.”

Fitz stares at the device for a moment, then gets back to work. “I’m not leaving.”

“Fitz,” Grant says, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand from the device. “There’s no time to argue.”

“You don’t think I can handle this?” Fitz asks over him.

“No,” Grant says. “I am trying to protect you.”

“Oh, you think I’m a coward,” Fitz decides. “Is that it?”

“What?” Grant asks. Where the hell did that come from? “No.”

“I am every. bit. the SHIELD agent that you are,” Fitz says. Then he jerks his wrist out of Grant’s grip and gets back to working on the device.

“Whoa, whoa,” Grant says. Seriously, what the hell is going on here?

Oh, wait. The swooping in thing. Damn it, he knew he should’ve dealt with that earlier.

“You don’t have anything to prove,” he tells Fitz. “What you said about me always needing to swoop in? I _know_ you would’ve jumped out of the plane to save Jemma. Hell, you had the parachute half on. I didn’t take it from you because I thought you were gonna chicken out. I took it from you because I’m trained for skydiving, and you’re not. I _know_ you would’ve done it, and so does Jemma. That’s why she knocked you out.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone,” Fitz says, but he doesn’t sound as angry now. He turns to look at Grant again. “Okay, before we left, you’re not the only one that Coulson talked to. Okay? He told me to take care of you, too. And that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

Wait, what? That’s ridiculous. Fitz is an untrained engineer, it makes sense for Coulson to tell Grant to look out for him. But the other way around? Grant is a highly trained specialist, best scores since Romanoff, for god’s sake. He doesn’t need to be looked after. And why would Coulson even care? Grant’s whole job is to be expendable.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Fitz insists. “You understand?”

He considers arguing more, bringing up the fact that Jemma doesn’t need to lose both of them today, but the fact of the matter is…she’s going to. They’re in the middle of what amounts to a military base. Fitz has no training, no map, and doesn’t speak the local language. Even if he does leave right now, and Grant waits until he’s out of range to deactivate the overkill device…

There’s no way Fitz can make it out of here alive. They’re both going to die.

He nods silently, and Fitz goes back to work.

Jemma’s going to be alone. She’s losing her best friend and her soulmate today, and she’s already been struggling with her own trauma. He hopes Skye can help her through this. He hopes she leaves SHIELD and goes into private industry, away from this fucking organization that will sacrifice its people like they’re nothing. He hopes Garrett finds a cure, and burns SHIELD to the ground once he has it. He hopes Victoria Hand dies a bloody, terrible death.

But mostly, as he watches Fitz disable the last few couplings, he just hopes Jemma will be okay. He tries not to think of her, at the Hub, hearing the beep and seeing her timer go red. He tries not to think how she’ll feel when she realizes he’s dead, and how much worse it will get when Fitz never comes back, either.

He’s glad they had those days in Italy. He hopes they’re a comfort to her, in the future. He hopes someone will help her through her nightmares.

Even though it’s pointless, even though it won’t save Fitz even if he does say yes, he has to give him one last out.

“Last chance, Fitz,” he says. “Are you sure you don’t want a head start? Because the _second_ you pull that final wire—”

Fitz answers by pulling the wire out, and the device shuts off. “Your turn.”

Grant shakes his head and hits the remote for the beacon.

It’s pretty much hopeless, but they might as well try to get out before the separatists notice that the device has been powered down. Unfortunately, Fitz has no sooner pulled the core out of the machine than an alarm sounds.

So much for that. Still, Grant’s not going down without a fight.

“We need a new plan,” he says, and he’s surprised to find Fitz speaking in unison with him. They exchange a weirded-out look and silently, mutually agree to ignore it.

“If I can use this to disable the separatists’ guns, we could just walk out of here,” Fitz says, looking down at the core. “It needs—”

Grant tunes him out, realizing he’s just talking to make himself feel better, and watches as he fusses with the wires, occasionally pulling some out of the main machine.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” he asks eventually. They’re running out of time; this room is going to be swarming with guards any second now.

“Yes,” Fitz says, annoyed. “Theoretically.”

Great. There’s the sound of a nearby door slamming, and both of them look towards it, then at each other. Fitz speeds up.

“Okay, finished,” he declares a second later. He bends down to grab his bag, and the building shakes with an explosion. “What was that?”

“SHIELD,” Grant tells him. “They’ve started their attack, which means we don’t have much time before they crush the compound.”

But they have more immediate problems; guards are coming down the stairs towards them. Grant looks around and spies an out of the way platform, which he points Fitz towards.

“Get up there and take out as many of their weapons as you can with that thing.”

Fitz scrambles for it, and Grant turns to face the approaching guards.

Surprisingly, the device does work, and the guards throw their useless weapons away and come at Grant with their bare hands. He’s almost glad. He uses what he’s been tamping down—the rage that’s still filling him, the desperation and the grief, the betrayal from SHIELD that he _should have been expecting_ , god damn it—and he takes it all out on the guards. He crosses them off, one by one, and he’s more violent than he needs to be but if he’s about to die he’s sure as hell taking these bastards with him.

One of them goes for the ladder that leads to Fitz, and Grant takes him down, too, but that leaves an opening for the last guard, who gets a couple of lucky punches in. Fitz kicks him in the face, knocking him out, before Grant can recover enough to do it himself.

Grant stares in shock as Fitz climbs down the ladder.

Fitz is shocked, too. “I just did that.” Grant nods in agreement, and Fitz hits him in the chest. “Okay, let’s go.”

They make it out of the building, into the compound, and Fitz is looking slightly more optimistic, but Grant knows it’s hopeless. They’re not getting out of here. Even with the overkill core that Fitz is carrying, they’re too outnumbered.

All the while, explosions have been going off in distant parts of the compound, and each one fills him with even more rage. So does the sight of the SHIELD jets that fly overhead; they’re about to destroy the facility, with he and Fitz still in it.

They stare at the quickly growing group of guards, who are approaching from every direction.

“You said they needed a guy like me and a guy like you, right?” Fitz asks.

“Right,” Grant agrees. It’s a lie—this could have been anyone—but he hopes Fitz will draw some comfort from the idea that his death is necessary, that he’s not dying for no reason.

A shadow falls over them, and they both look up. Grant stares, completely stunned. It’s not possible. That can’t be what he thinks it is.

“It’s the extraction team?” Fitz guesses.

The plane comes fully into view, and Grant shakes his head. It’s the Bus. It really is. Somehow, their team is here.

“Better,” he tells Fitz. Giddy with relief as he is, he can’t resist the joke. “It’s the Cavalry.”

He laughs as May turns the Bus to face the separatists, then reverses the jets so that they get knocked back. She achieves a vertical landing, and the cargo ramp lowers. He and Fitz don’t waste any time running for it, and as soon as Grant hits the button to raise the cargo ramp, the plane begins to lift.

“We’re alive,” Fitz says blankly.

“Yeah,” Grant agrees. “Did _not_ see that one coming.”

He looks up at the sound of footsteps, and sees Coulson coming down the stairs.

“Thanks for coming to get us, sir,” he says, offering his hand.

“We take care of our own,” Coulson tells him, shaking his hand and then Fitz’s.

Jemma appears in the lab, coming from the direction of the storage area, and immediately moves towards them. She hangs back as Coulson leaves, then throws herself at Fitz.

“You’re okay,” she says, hugging him tightly. “Oh, I can’t believe it. When Skye told us there was no extraction team—”

“Of course I’m fine, Simmons,” Fitz tells her, patting her back. “Don’t fuss.”

Grant smiles as he watches them begin to argue over what exactly constitutes ‘fine’. He looks up, sensing movement above him, and sees May on the catwalk. He nods at her in thanks, and she returns it and leaves. Not one to hang around, May. Unlike Skye, who’s standing in the lab, bouncing on her heels. She’s obviously waiting for Jemma to be done before she comes out and greets them. He dismisses her for the moment and looks back at his soulmate, who is still hugging Fitz even as she argues with him.

He’s glad Jemma got to Fitz first, because he needs a moment to gain control of himself.

They could have died. They _would_ have died, without the team. Taking into account what Jemma just said, he has a feeling that Skye got too curious for her own good, somehow hacked the mission files, and saw there was no planned extraction, leading to the team taking the Bus and coming to get them.

Which means that if Skye _hadn’t_ hacked the files, he and Fitz would be dead. They would have died just now, in that compound, because Grant was stupid enough to trust SHIELD with their safety. Before, he thought he’d been cautious, but he’s obviously allowed years of counting on SHIELD to get to him, and that’s why they got caught in South Ossetia without a back-up extraction plan.

Well, he won’t be making _that_ mistake again. _We take care of our own_ , Coulson said, and that’s true, but the _we_ in question isn’t SHIELD. It’s the team. It’s _his_ team. From now on, he trusts them. He trusts the team, and he trusts Garrett, and that’s it. He won’t trust SHIELD with anything. Not with extraction plans, not with missions, and certainly not with Jemma’s safety.

Speaking of whom, she finally pulls away from Fitz (allowing the impatiently waiting Skye to hug him) and immediately throws herself at Grant.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, clutching him tightly. “Don’t say you’re not, I can _see_ you’re hurt, and we should really get those cuts looked at.”

He relaxes as he slides his arms around her, feeling most of his tension melt away.

“I’m fine, Jemma,” he says. “It’s nothing major.”

“Yes, well, I’ll be the judge of that,” she says sternly. She pressed her face into his chest, obviously trying not to cry, and he hugs her tighter.

“I’m fine,” he repeats. “Fitz and I are both fine.”

“You’re sure?” she frets. “You don’t need anything?”

“Well, there is one thing.”

“What?” she asks, looking up.

He feels bad when he sees the worry on her face, but he really can’t resist. “We’ll be better when we get those sandwiches you owe us.”

Jemma gasps, indignant, and pulls back to sock him in the chest as Fitz laughs. (She keeps her other arm wrapped around his waist, her fingers hooked through his belt loops, and he keeps an arm around her shoulders. Neither one of them is ready to let go.)

“I owe you no such thing,” she says. “The deal was that you’d get sandwiches if you came back unharmed, and you are _clearly_ not unharmed.”

“Oh, come off it, Simmons,” Fitz interjects. “We just single-handedly brought down an entire separatist group. We _earned_ those sandwiches.”

Grant doesn’t know that what just happened can be described as single-handed, but he actually does really want a sandwich, so he nods in agreement when Jemma looks back at him.

She ‘hmph’s a little and looks away. “We’ll see.”

“That means yes,” Fitz tells him.

“It means we’ll see,” Jemma corrects instantly.

“It means you’ll do it,” Fitz counters, then waves a hand. “So! We’ve talked about our mission enough, don’t you think? Did anything exciting happen at the Hub?”

Skye laughs. She sounds a little hysterical when she says, “Oh, you could say that.”

Grant leans back to better look at Jemma, who clears her throat.

“Um,” she says. “I shot a superior officer in the chest.”

_What_.

Skye laughs harder, while Grant and Fitz stare at Jemma in shock.

“You—you what?” Fitz sputters. “Why would—what on— _Ward_! You are a _terrible_ influence!”

“Don’t look at me,” he says, raising his free hand innocently. “I’ve never shot a superior officer in the chest.”

“I used the night-night gun,” Jemma says defensively. “And I didn’t have a choice! Agent Sitwell caught me in a corridor I didn’t have access to. I _had_ to shoot him.”

Grant clears his throat, trying to keep a stern expression. It’s difficult; that’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard, and he’d really like to kiss her.

“What were you doing in an area you didn’t have access to?” he asks.

“We were trying to find out what was going on with your mission,” she says. “Skye cooked up a plan—”

“Hey, that was _not_ my fault,” Skye defends. “I told you to flirt with the guy, not shoot him!”

“Oh, like anyone would believe I’d flirt with Jasper Sitwell when I’ve got a soulmate who looks like this,” Jemma snaps, motioning to Grant with her free hand.

He can’t help laughing at that, and at the horrified look Fitz sports in response to the words. Jemma’s never made any secret of the fact that she finds him attractive, but it’s always nice to hear.

“Well, thank you,” he says, earning an annoyed look from Fitz. He rolls his eyes in return. “For finding out that there wasn’t an extraction plan and getting us out. Thank you.”

“Oh, yes,” Fitz agrees. “Thank you.”

“Our pleasure,” Jemma says.

“Any time,” Skye agrees.

They stand in silence for a moment, then Jemma takes a deep breath and finally lets go of him. He lets his arm slide off of her shoulder as she takes a step back.

“Well, I suppose I’ll make you those sandwiches, after all,” she says. “Since you’ve had such a hard day.”

She hurries up the stairs before anyone can say anything else, and he watches her go, concerned.

“Knew it,” Fitz mutters, and follows her up.

Skye comes to stand in front of him and punches him in the arm. “You know, for a second there, I thought I’d have to find a new supervising officer.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says. He looks back up the stairs, after Fitz. “Truth is, I was in good hands.”

Skye smiles. “Aww, did you and Fitz bond? Did you go on a life-changing field trip together?”

She’s wearing that face she wears when she references something, but he has no idea what she’s talking about, so he just pats her on the shoulder.

“Sure,” he says. “If you say so.”

\---

Later, after a debriefing with Coulson, a really delicious sandwich, and a forty-minute shower, he finds Jemma sitting on his bed.

“Hey,” he says, sliding the door closed. “You okay?”

“I thought you were going to die,” she says shakily. “Skye said that you and Fitz might be being tortured, so I helped her get the file, and there was no extraction plan. You were alone in hostile territory with no extraction plan, and we—”

He sits down next to her, pulls her into his side.

“Hey, I’m fine,” he reminds her. “ _We’re_ fine. We didn’t die, we weren’t tortured, and Fitz even made a new friend.”

“A new friend?” she echoes.

“A woman named Marta who runs a gang near the border,” he explains. “She called him little bear.”

She laughs, a little tearily.

“I just don’t understand,” she says. “Why would SHIELD send you in without an extraction plan? How could they overlook something like that?”

He takes a deep breath. He feels the way she’s shaking against him, hears the plea in her voice. He could turn her, right now. Not to HYDRA’s side, no, she’d never go for that—but he could turn her against SHIELD. Tell her that her soulmate and her best friend were considered expendable, that they’d been filed under acceptable losses in the name of global security. If he uses the right words, he can shatter her loyalty to SHIELD. He won’t even have to lie. He could do it right now.

No he can’t.

It would more than break her trust in SHIELD. Knowing that she’s given her life to a lie? That SHIELD is entirely unworthy of the dedication she’s given it? It would break her heart, too. He can’t do that to her. Not tonight.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter?” she demands. “How can it not matter? You nearly _died_. If Skye hadn’t insisted on going looking for that file, you would have died.” She lets out a shuddering breath and repeats, “You would have died.”

She buries her face in her hands, and he pulls her into his lap.

“We didn’t,” he reminds her. He pulls her hands away from her face, kisses her. Once, twice, three times. Slow, gentle kisses, meant for reassurance, not passion. By the end of the third, she’s smiling a little, no longer at risk of crying. She leans forward to rest her head against his shoulder.

“I love you,” she says into his neck.

“I love you, too,” he says, stroking her hair.

She sighs contentedly, and he continues running his fingers through her hair, trying to keep his calm.

He has to let this go for now. He can’t act too soon, or it will tip his hand. He won’t jeopardize his relationship with Jemma, and he won’t risk Garrett’s plan.

But he swears to himself that he’ll get his revenge, for this. SHIELD nearly got him and Fitz killed, nearly stole them away and left Jemma alone. That can’t go unpunished. It won’t be today, and it won’t be tomorrow, but someday, there’s going to be a reckoning. Someday, SHIELD is going to pay for what nearly happened. He can’t take the whole organization down, obviously, as much as he’d like to. But he can take down the people responsible for what happened today. And he knows _exactly_ who’s to blame for this incident.

Someday, hopefully soon, Victoria Hand is going to learn _exactly_ why Grant is considered the most dangerous specialist to come out of the Academy in recent memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I don't own in this chapter: SHIELD, obviously. I-Mines, which I cheerfully stole from Eureka. And a life-changing field trip, which might have been enough to turn Ward from HYDRA, if only Zuko had been able to make it.


	8. The Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The word of the week is Asgardian, as the team gets called in to help clean-up efforts in London, then gets sent after an Asgardian weapon that gives its wielders super-strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for all of the comments and kudos! They're excellent motivation.
> 
> This is the longest chapter to date, and it would've been even longer if I hadn't gone back and summarized a lot of dialogue. So I hope y'all have some time set aside to read this! 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review.

The team sleeps through the aliens attacking London. Literally. They’ve just finished a hellish mission which involved every single member of the team staying awake for three days straight—Grant, Coulson, and May trying to protect the general populace from the flying…things that keep attacking them, Jemma and Fitz trying to figure out how to neutralize the things, and Skye trying to trace the money trail to find out who _invented_ the things while occasionally assisting in populace protection.

By the time the bastard who invented the flying things is arrested and his inventions—created using alien technology, hence Jemma and Fitz’s difficulty in containing them—are rounded up and deactivated, the entire team is exhausted. Coulson calls in to HQ to request another team be sent to determine exactly _how_ the inventor got his hands on alien technology (especially since it isn’t a type of technology SHIELD has encountered before), informs the higher ups that the team is taking down time, and then uses his expense account to book them all rooms at the nearest decent hotel.

So while things are going down in London, Grant is sound asleep in a three star hotel room, comfortably entwined with Jemma.

\---

The buzzing of his and Jemma’s phones on the nightstand wakes Grant up around three in the afternoon. Jemma scrunches her nose a bit and curls closer to him, but doesn’t wake. She deserves the sleep, especially as it appears to be entirely untroubled—still not a common occurrence, two weeks after her near death—so he reaches to silence her phone and answer his.

“Ward,” he says by way of greeting.

“Aliens attacked London,” Coulson informs him plainly. “We missed the action, but we’re being called in to help with the clean-up.”

Grant disentangles himself from Jemma and sits up.

“Chitauri?” he asks, keeping his tone casual, even though he feels anything but. If it _is_ Chitauri, there’s no way he’s letting Jemma anywhere near the scene. Or the rest of the team, for that matter. It’s his job to protect them, and recent events have proven that the best way to protect them is to keep them far away from anything Chitauri.

“Fortunately, no,” Coulson answers. His tone is a little too understanding for Grant’s taste. “Apparently, they were Dark Elves.”

“Dark Elves?” he echoes, dubious. His mind flashes to the fantasy convention where he once went undercover, picturing some of the costumes he saw there.

“From Svartalfheim,” Coulson confirms.

“Gesundheit,” Grant says, sliding to the edge of the bed and reaching for his jeans, which are lying on the floor where he left them sixteen hours ago. He and Jemma were too tired to even think about sex last night, which he regrets now, since it looks like they won’t be spending the whole day in bed, as they planned.

“You know, you’re the third person to make that joke in the last ten minutes.”

“I’ll be more original next time,” he promises, tucking his phone against his neck to use both hands as he slides his jeans on. “When do we leave?”

“Wheels up in an hour,” Coulson says. “I assume you can inform Simmons?”

“Yes, sir,” he agrees. He hangs up, not bothering with goodbyes, and considers Jemma. An hour’s not a lot of time (although it’s more than he was expecting), and he’s a little conflicted about what to do with it. On the one hand, he could wake her up and they could shower together—an attractive option, especially since it looks like they’ll be surrounded by their teammates for the foreseeable future. On the other hand, he could shower alone and let her sleep that much longer.

After a brief mental debate, he sighs and leaves her to sleep. She deserves it, after the week they’ve had, and he’s too happy that she’s sleeping without nightmares to wake her up just because he wants her.

He always wants her; it’ll keep.

\---

Once they’re in the air, Coulson provides a brief summary of the recent events in London, then fills them in on exactly what they’re being called in to do. Apparently, there’s a lot of clean-up to be done, and HQ isn’t willing to let civilians handle it, considering the high likelihood of alien objects being scattered among the rubble. With the reports from the Chitauri virus that resulted from the last alien invasion so recently filed, HQ is playing it safe, and all clean-up is being left in the hands of SHIELD agents.

Which is reasonable, sure, but Grant can’t say he’s happy about letting any of his team be among the SHIELD agents doing this clean-up. Jemma’s looking a little pale, obviously thinking of the virus that nearly killed her, and he can tell, looking around the lounge, that the two of them aren’t the only ones remembering that horrible day.

For one thing, Skye—who has an annoying habit of gleefully tattling on Grant and Jemma whenever they do anything that might cross the line into unprofessional behavior during business hours—hasn’t said anything about how close together Jemma and Grant are sitting. And she must have noticed, with all of the glances she keeps darting at Jemma. Fitz, on Jemma’s other side, looks just as pale as she does, and May, although as stoic as ever, is frowning a little.

There’s a long moment of awkward silence, no one wanting to bring up the elephant in the room. Oddly enough, it’s broken by Jemma herself.

“In light of our…recent experience,” she says carefully. “I believe we should be cautious whilst shifting through the rubble. I’ve actually designed a disinfectant spray which may be useful.”

“Really?” Coulson asks. “Do you think it will work against Dark Elf viruses?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Jemma tells him calmly, although her grip on Grant’s hand has tightened noticeably. “For obvious reasons, I haven’t been able to perform any sort of comprehensive testing of the spray’s abilities. Still, it certainly won’t hurt anything.”

“Good enough for me,” Coulson agrees. “Fitz, can you scan anything we find to see if it’s of alien origin?”

“Of course I can,” Fitz says, sounding slightly offended that it’s in question.

Coulson nods. “The rest of us will sort through the rubble, separate out anything that’s obviously human made. By all accounts, the alien ships and weapons were all metal-based, so any stone, brick, and plaster can be discarded.”

“Right,” Skye says, like she’s making a mental note. “If it came from a building, we don’t care. Got it.”

Coulson gives her a look. “Something like that. May, how long will the flight take?”

“Seven hours and twenty-eight minutes,” May reports, after checking her watch.

“Right, you’re all dismissed,” Coulson says. “It’s been a long week, and I need you awake when we reach London. Go to bed.”

“I was in bed,” Skye gripes as she stands. Grant’s amused to note that she apparently didn’t bother to get dressed for her trip from the hotel, since she’s still wearing pajamas. “Then _someone_ called and woke me up.”

Coulson ignores her, leaving the lounge with May on his heels, and Skye huffs a little.

“Fine, whatever,” she mutters to herself as she heads for her bunk. “Of course we need to get to London, because _no one else_ can dig around for alien stuff. Not like we spent all week trying to stop a psycho…”

Her voice trails off as she slides the door to her bunk closed behind her, and Grant shakes his head as he stands and pulls Jemma up by their still entwined hands. Fitz has fallen asleep right where he’s sitting.

“You can leave him,” Jemma tells him, following his gaze. “He’ll wake in a bit and wander to bed on his own.”

“Good,” he says. He’s not really in the mood to wrangle a grumpy, sleep-deprived engineer. He’s not in the mood to do much of anything, really, except maybe grab Jemma and run. Which is ridiculous—there’s no danger in the clean-up they’ve been called on to do, not really. The aliens involved were Dark Elves (ridiculous as that may sound), not Chitauri, and they know to be cautious dealing with anything they come across. This is nothing like the mission that nearly ended with Jemma’s death; they know aliens are involved and they know exactly what’s at stake.

Telling himself that doesn’t help at all.

“Grant?” Jemma says. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he says. “Just tired. Let’s go to bed.”

He smiles reassuringly in response to her unconvinced look, then follows her to his bunk. Technically speaking, sharing his bed is still against the protocol Coulson laid out for them, but this will be the third time, and Coulson hasn’t said anything. Grant’s taking that to mean that he’s willing to turn a blind eye to the violation of protocol, as long as he doesn’t catch them in the act.

Which is a good thing, because Grant honestly doesn’t think he could sleep without Jemma, at this point. And that’s nothing to do with how it good it feels to have her next to him, or how comforting he finds the warm weight of her pressed against his chest, and everything to do with the fact that he still has difficulty being apart from her. He _is_ making progress on that front, though. The other day he was away from her for a whole two hours without getting edgy.

Even in his head it sounds pathetic, but...whatever. His soulmate nearly died two weeks ago. All things considered, he thinks he’s doing pretty well with it. (The part where she was nearly _murdered_ on SHIELD’s orders, on the other hand…but he can’t think about that right now. It only makes him angry, and the time’s not right for revenge.)

\---

After breakfast, while Jemma’s down in the lab getting the alien disinfectant spray she invented, Fitz pulls Grant aside.

“What’s up?” Grant asks, a little concerned.

He’s not concerned that Fitz wants to talk to him, of course. As it happens, the mission they went on together last week (another thing he can’t think about too long, for fear of losing control of his anger at SHIELD) was enough to finally get Fitz over the last of his reservations about Grant. The two of them have been getting along much better, are maybe even approaching friends, and it’s made Jemma very happy.

Grant’s happy, too, and not just because Jemma is, although that’s naturally a large part of it. He’s finding, now that he doesn’t have to contend with Fitz’s constant suspicion, that he actually likes him as a person. Fitz is kind of hilarious, often unintentionally so, and with Grant’s new perspective, Fitz’s more annoying traits aren’t actually all that annoying.

Still, newfound friendship aside, it’s not like Fitz to wait until Jemma is gone to try and talk to him.

“When you and Simmons were in Italy, did she call her parents?” Fitz asks.

Grant frowns, thinking back. He knows that Jemma calls her parents every Monday, and he’s pretty sure she didn’t the Monday they were in Sant’Agnello; Jemma had a terrible nightmare the night before, in which she accidentally killed him by infecting him before she knew about the virus, and they spent the whole day quietly. The only time they were apart for more than ten minutes was when he did his morning training, and even then, he doesn’t think she had time for a phone call.

“I don’t think so,” he says finally. “Why?”

“She’s been avoiding their calls,” Fitz tells him. “It’s not like her at all.”

“No,” Grant agrees. “It’s not.”

“She won’t talk to me about it,” Fitz says, a little grumpily. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

“I’ll talk to her tonight,” Grant assures him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for letting me know.”

\---

The agent-in-charge on the scene appoints the team to the clean-up crew working at Greenwich University. Jemma and Fitz are assigned to a group of scientists going through what’s been deemed ‘suspicious’ rubble in one of the designated scanning rooms, and Grant quickly volunteers to haul said suspicious rubble to and from the room. It’s hard work, with a lot of heavy lifting, but at least it gives him an excuse to hang around Jemma—something he’s all too happy to have as, despite her fairly decent cheerful façade, it’s obvious she’s nervous to be dealing with alien artifacts so soon after her exposure to the Chitauri virus.

The disinfectant spray Jemma invented is deemed a necessary part of the process, and each scanning room is given two bottles. In any other situation, Grant would be amused by just how much of the spray Jemma has on hand, but in this case, it’s more worrying than funny. There are three scanning rooms, which means Jemma has at least six bottles—one for each member of the team. It’s a reasonable enough precaution, of course, but considering the fact that she felt the need to produce so much of it, when by her own admission she hasn’t even finished testing it yet…

She’s not okay. She’s still traumatized by her experience, and while it’s only to be expected, he really wishes she weren’t. It’s probably a good sign that she’s turned to science to deal with her lingering fears, but…it hurts him, that she needs to.

Still, there’s nothing he can do about it, and he forces his worry away as they get to work. He makes sure to brush by her whenever he gets even the slightest opportunity, squeezes her shoulder every once in a while, and keeps a sharp eye on the mess she’s sorting through. Just in case.

\---

By the second day of clean-up, everyone is heartily sick of it, and resentment against Asgard is at an all-time high. As he hauls in what must be his two hundredth wheelbarrow full of rubble, he’s amused to find that even Jemma is complaining. In the past, she’s expressed awe over the idea of contact with Asgard, speaking longingly of how much knowledge the ancient race might have to share, but apparently the appeal has worn off, faced as she is by the mess Thor has left for SHIELD to clean up.

Jemma’s of the opinion that the Asgardians should have stuck around to clean up their own mess, but Fitz is taking a slightly different tack.

“This is definitely the type of work a monkey could easily do,” Fitz tells him.

“You’re our little monkey,” Grant teases, leaning against his wheelbarrow.

Fitz rolls his eyes in response, but there’s a pleased smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Before Fitz can fire back his own remark (likely something comparing Grant’s intelligence to that of a monkey, if he’s any judge), they’re interrupted by the sound of Jemma’s phone. It’s the ringtone for her parents’ home phone, and Grant and Fitz exchange a look as she dismisses the call.

“Don’t give me that look,” she tells Fitz. “I’ll talk to them…when I talk to them.”

“Talk to who?” Grant asks casually as he flips his wheelbarrow upright. He didn’t have the chance to talk to her about it last night—they were both so exhausted that they just collapsed into bed as soon as they got back to the Bus—and he silently resolves to bring it up tonight, no matter how tired they are.

“Mum and Dad,” Jemma says. “They want explanations and answers for, well, all this. But I don’t _have_ any answers. And, more importantly, I haven’t talked to them since I was ill. And if they knew that, they’d be even more terrified.” The phone beeps, and she slides it into her pocket. “So, you know, why waste any of our time?”

Grant ignores the falsely casual reference to her brush with death, instead focusing on the issue at hand. He knows, from earlier conversations about her parents, that Jemma has a habit of hiding things from them. For instance, they have no idea that she’s doing field work now; she told them about getting a transfer, but she let them assume it was to another lab. And while they know that she’s met her soulmate, he doesn’t think she’s told them anything about him. They definitely don’t know he’s a specialist—well, they wouldn’t anyway, since civilians aren’t allowed to know that much about SHIELD’s internal structure, but she could at least tell them he’s a field agent.

Except she can’t, since, as she pointed out, then they’d want to know when she had occasion to meet a field agent, and that would lead right back to the conversation about field work that she doesn’t want to have.

Basically, Jemma’s gone to a lot of trouble to protect her parents from the reality of the work she does and the danger she faces. So it’s no surprise that she hasn’t told them about what happened with the Chitauri virus. He is, however, a little confused as to why she’s keeping quiet about the attack on London; she can truthfully tell them that she was nowhere near London when it happened, and that all of the information she has on it is classified.

Then again, he knows from experience that that word doesn’t tend to go over well with civilians.

“They won’t take well to being told it’s classified?” he guesses.

“ _Definitely_ not,” Jemma says. She takes on a high-pitched tone he assumes is meant to mimic her mother. “It’s all over the telly, Jemma, there’s nothing _secret_ about it!”

Grant snorts, more at the ridiculous impersonation than anything else. He knows impressions aren’t her strong suit—the one she does of him would be enough to make _May_ laugh—but that’s just horrible.

“Your mum does _not_ sound like that,” Fitz tells her.

“She does when she’s shouting,” Jemma defends.

“She really doesn’t,” Fitz says as he picks up a little metal clamp to scan.

Jemma’s heading for the pile in the center of the room, presumably to gather some more objects in need of scanning, but she’s stopped by the beeping the scanner Fitz is holding lets out. She stumbles back against the table, and Grant moves forward.

“Fitz,” Jemma says shakily. “Is that, um…”

“Definitely not from here,” Fitz says, standing and holding it up. “Another piece of the ship.”

Grant takes it from him and quickly disinfects it as Fitz asks him what he’s doing. Jemma’s looking a little pale, so he addresses his answer to her.

“Out of sight,” he says, placing the clamp in a biohazard box and locking it. “Out of mind.”

She nods and smiles weakly, edging along the side of the table to return to the other side, obviously trying to keep as much distance from the box as possible. It’s completely understandable and not a bit surprising, but he hates that something as simple as a little metal clamp can have her struggling to maintain her composure. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, and he knows there’s absolutely nothing he can say that will make this any less nerve-wracking for her.

Still, he can’t _not_ try.

“It’s why we’re here,” he reminds her gently. “We’ll keep everything under control.”

“Of course,” she says quietly. She indicates the box. “You’d better get that to containment.”

“Right,” he agrees, picking it up. He exchanges a look with Fitz, who nods resolutely. He’ll keep close to Jemma while Grant takes care of this.

Not that there’s much in the way of taking care of to do; it’s only a few minutes’ work to hand the box over to the agents handling containment and return to the scanning room. He still finds himself hurrying back, but that’s hardly a surprise.

What is a surprise is finding Coulson in the scanning room, standing against a wall while Jemma and Fitz pack up their equipment.

“Is the clean-up done already, sir?” Grant asks.

“It is for us,” Coulson says. “We’ve been called in to investigate some suspicious activity in Norway. Possible candidate for the Index.”

He pushes away from the wall and heads for the door.

“Better step on it,” he says over his shoulder. “We leave in five.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agrees, and moves to help Jemma gather her gear.

\---

Back on the Bus, Coulson fills them in on what he knows about the incident in Norway. It isn’t much.

“We’re headed for Trillemarka National Park,” Coulson says, pulling up a map of Norway and zooming in to the park. “It’s 150 square kilometers of protected forest, and park rangers keep up a constant patrol—mostly aimed at aiding lost and injured hikers, as I understand it. They don’t tend to get a lot of trouble.”

“But today they did?” Skye guesses.

“Today they did,” Coulson confirms. He highlights a specific section of the forest, then brings up two ID cards on the screen. “Two park rangers—Olaf Haugen and Lars Nilsen—were attacked an hour ago. Nilsen was killed, Haugen was unharmed. According to his report, two unidentified individuals, a man and a woman, cut down one of the trees. When Haugen and Nilsen confronted them, the woman attacked them. She pushed Nilsen twenty feet into another tree. Force of impact snapped his neck. Haugen ran for help and they let him go.”

“Sorry, sir,” Grant says. “Did you say she _pushed_ him?”

“According to Haugen’s report, the woman shoved Nilsen and he went flying,” Coulson confirms. “We need to find out who these people are, how the woman managed this, and whether the man has similar abilities. May?”

“Since time is of the essence, we’ve received permission from the Norwegian authorities to land in a field just outside the forest,” May says, indicating a spot on the map. “ETA ninety-seven minutes.”

“Any questions?” Coulson asks.

There aren’t, and he dismisses the briefing. Grant leaves the room, intending to grab his latest book and get some reading done, and is surprised to find Jemma following him.

“You okay?” he asks, stopping outside of his bunk. “Not going down to the lab?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “But if you don’t mind, I thought I’d spend the flight with you.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” he says, sliding the door open. “I’d like that. I was just gonna get some reading done.”

Jemma slips past him and flops down on his bed, and after a moment of deliberation, he slides the door shut and joins her. They take a minute to adjust themselves, so that she’s lying between him and the door (away from the window, even though the shade is closed) and their legs are tangled together.

“You okay?” he asks again, once they’re comfortable. “You look a little pale.”

“I know it’s silly,” she says. “But it made me so nervous, digging through that rubble.”

“It’s not silly,” he tells her. “You nearly died the last time you had contact with an alien object. Hell, I was nervous, too. You might’ve noticed how I spent most of the last two days hanging around the scanning room.”

“I did think you were hovering a little more than usual,” she allows.

“And I hope you don’t think it was a coincidence that you and Fitz were working in the same room,” he continues.

“It wasn’t?”

“Nope,” he says. “Coulson’s orders. We were all nervous about letting you near the scene.”

“That does make me feel better,” she says, tapping her fingers against his chest. “At least we’re _all_ unreasonably emotional.”

He laughs, more at her tone than her words, and she joins in after a moment. When their laughter fades, they don’t bother to resume their conversation, instead remaining in comfortable silence for nearly twenty minutes.

Jemma’s hand is still resting on his chest. On impulse, he lifts her wrist and kisses her timer, and she stirs, tilting her head back to look at him better.

“Why have you started doing that?” she asks.

“What?”

“Kissing my timer,” she clarifies, lifting her wrist a little in emphasis. “Ever since we returned from Italy, you do it all the time.”

“Does it bother you?” he asks, concerned.

“Of course not,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I think it’s…sweet, actually. I was just wondering what started it.”

He stares at the ceiling, thinking, and Jemma sits up, twisting so that her back is against the wall and her legs are lying across his knees. There’s no reason not to tell her, is there? For some reason, though, he hesitates.

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to,” she says, a little uncertainly.

 _It’s a weakness_ , Garrett’s voice whispers in his head, and he shoves it away, irritated.

“No, I want to,” he says. He sits up, takes her hand, which has been resting on his thigh, and pulls it closer to examine her timer. He looks at the numbers—the exact date and time of their first meeting, down to the millisecond—and the slight green glow, his own life reflected right there in the color of the timer’s light, and slides his thumb over the delicate skin of her wrist. Then he turns his hand over, baring his own wrist, showing the empty skin where his timer used to be.

“My timer was removed the day after I graduated from the Academy,” he tells her quietly. “I knew it was going to happen—Garrett told me about it before I was even signed up—and I spent my entire time at the Academy worrying about it. About you.”

“About me?”

“I didn’t know—no one ever told me what it would do to _your_ timer,” he says. “I was terrified that losing my timer would make yours go red, and you’d think I had died.” He laughs, humorlessly. “I used to have nightmares about it.”

Jemma pulls her wrist from his grasp and takes his hand. “What sort of nightmares?”

“Nightmares where your life was ruined when your timer went red. Where you—gave up, the way some people do. And other nightmares, where you didn’t,” he takes a deep breath. “Where you moved on, instead, and when I finally found you you were happily married—or unhappily, sometimes—and you didn’t want anything to do with me. Where you blamed me, for letting you think I was dead.”

“Oh, Grant,” she says softly.

“When the woman who took my timer told me that yours would just go blank, not red, I didn’t even have time to be relieved,” he continues. “She put me under, and when I woke up, my timer was gone.” He swallows, hard, remembering the terrible moment when he looked down and saw empty skin. “It was…horrible. They told me that the reason I had to be unconscious for the procedure was that it’s an unbearably painful process, but I thought, beforehand, that nothing could hurt as much as waking up and seeing…nothing. I was right.”

Jemma makes a little sound and squeezes his hand tightly.

“I’m a good specialist,” he says. “One of the best, and that’s not bragging. I am very good at what I do and I’m happy to do it, even though it’s difficult. And even though I’ve done things I’m ashamed of, I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. And I was sad, not to have my timer, but I’ve never regretted becoming a specialist. I’ve never regretted the path I chose. Until…”

“Until?” she prompts gently, after a few minutes.

“Until I was standing in the briefing room, watching you die,” he finishes. “You were running out of time, and I couldn’t bear to be in the cargo bay, but I couldn’t _not_. So I went to the briefing room and I watched you on the security feed, and it was—I could barely stand it, how pale you were, the way things kept floating, knowing you’d be doing the same thing, soon enough, but I had to watch, because I had to know. Every second, I had to—I had to see, to know you were still alive, at least for that moment. And I—if I had a timer, I could have watched that, instead. It would’ve been green, and I would’ve known, and I could have looked away from the feed. I wouldn’t have had to watch you trying to save your own life. And for a moment, I—I _hated_.”

He realizes how tightly he’s holding her hand and forces himself to loosen his grip.

“I hated Garrett, for convincing me to sign up for SHIELD in the first place. And I hated myself for agreeing. For being so _selfish_ , so concerned with my own career that I willingly gave up my timer—my connection to you. If I hadn’t been so stupid—”

“Stop it,” Jemma interrupts. She pushes away from the wall and slides into his lap, resting her hands on his shoulders. “I’m sorry that you haven’t had your timer, Grant, but pursuing a career doesn’t make you selfish. It certainly doesn’t make you stupid.”

“I gave you up,” he says quietly. “That was stupid.”

“I’m right here,” she reminds him, squeezing his shoulders tightly. “You didn’t give me up. We’re both right here, where we’re supposed to be. You joined SHIELD for the same reason I did—to save lives—and you’ve done that. You’ve done that a thousand times over. If you regret giving up your timer, that’s fine, but I won’t have you insulting yourself. Not for this. Not for all the good you’ve done. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees, pulling her forward to hug her. She returns it easily, and he buries his face in her hair, feeling even worse than he did when he started. Jemma actually believes that he joined SHIELD to save lives, and he doesn’t know why, but that makes him feel sick. It should be a good thing, that she buys his cover, but…

 _Jemma_ joined SHIELD to save lives. Grant joined SHIELD because Garrett told him to.

\---

By the time they reach Trillemarka National Park, he’s feeling a lot more settled. The same, unfortunately, cannot be said for Jemma.

While they were in flight, park rangers searched the entire forest and found that the unidentified suspects only cut down one specific tree. According to Haugen’s report, they also took something from the tree, and knowing what might help the team catch them. So Jemma needs to get a good look at the tree and scan it. The problem is that to do that, she needs to climb along the trunk, which is lying against a few other trees, leaving the top of it about fifteen feet in the air.

For obvious reasons, she’s not very enthusiastic about the process. She keeps up a calm façade as she arranges her gear, but once she’s securely harnessed she just stands next to the tree stump, staring up the trunk.

He gives her a few minutes, then, when she doesn’t move, offers to go up for her. It’s better for her if she goes—she needs to face her fear of heights eventually—but he really can’t stand that look on her face.

“Just talk me through what to do with the…doodads,” he says, having absolutely no idea what her various pieces of equipment are called. She turns to look at him, obviously torn on whether to accept the offer. “You know, it’s only about fifteen feet.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says determinedly, turning back to the tree. “It’s just…well, you know.”

He does know, having spent more time than he cares to think about comforting her after nightmares.

“You’re afraid,” he says quietly, taking a step closer. “Shaken up? It’s normal.” He’s told her that a million times, and he’ll keep telling her. She has absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. He takes her hand and helps her on to the stump. “But, some feelings will take over if you dwell on them. Especially fear.”

He lets go of her hand and steps back a little, considering how best to distract her. Science, obviously, but what kind of science can he come up with that might get her up the tree?

“Now, keep your eyes ahead,” he says. “Focus on…what you like to do best.”

“Yep,” Jemma says, taking a shaky step onto the trunk. “Not…falling.”

“No,” he says. “Research. You’re a scientist, you like to figure things out.”

“Yes, with my doodads,” she agrees. He quietly congratulates himself for his choice of words, because ‘doodads’ just sounds hilarious in her accent, and for a moment, she’s just as amused as he is.

“I’m curious,” he says, finally hitting on something that might distract her. At least he hopes it will. “Whatever was up in these trees had to be there for…centuries, right?”

“At least a millennium,” she corrects. “Radiocarbon-14 dates some of these trees at nine thousand years old.”

“That sounds impossible,” he says. “Think the tree _grew_ around it?”

“Ah, I’d have to check the dendrochronology first to know for certain,” she says, starting up the tree. He follows closely on the ground, keeping a hand up just in case she loses her footing. “I mean, the Norway spruce is a rather fast-growing coniferous, and I know you’re trying to trick me into going up, but I’m going up anyway. So.”

“I’ll catch you if you fall,” he promises. He keeps his tone light, but he’s entirely serious.

He watches, pleased, as Jemma makes her way to the top of the tree. Her steps are careful and halting, but she doesn’t stop. It hurts him that it’s so difficult for her, but he’s proud of her for doing it despite her fear.

She carefully sits down near the top and begins scanning the hole in the tree. Her tablet immediately beeps, and he tenses.

“Um,” she says a little faintly. “Whatever was in here was definitely not of this world. Fitz, you getting this?”

Fitz is still on the Bus, waiting to receive the data Jemma gets from the tree. May and Skye are there, too, going through CCTV footage from the roads leading out of the park, hoping to get lucky and capture an image of the suspects.

“It’s not Chitauri, is it?” Jemma asks. She sounds worried, and he resists the urge to pull her out of the tree. Even if it _is_ the Chitauri virus again—which they have absolutely no reason to believe, and is highly unlikely in any case—they’ve got plenty of the antiserum back on the Bus. There’s no reason to worry.

“No, no, no, don’t worry,” Fitz says instantly. “This isn’t another viral threat.” Grant relaxes, but only a little, while Jemma, apparently emboldened by the reassurance, leans closer to get a better look at the tree. “Um, hang on…spectrographic signatures match readings from…Thor’s hammer. Simmons, whatever was in that tree is _Asgardian_.”

“Huh, I—I can see an imprint of what was embedded,” she says, reaching to grab a different scanner from her bag, which she turns on the tree. “Scanning for three-dimensional restoration. Tell me when.”

“When,” Fitz says. “Um, looks like a staff, or a rod. Well-crafted, engraved. I’ll convert it, print a 3-D model.”

Grant’s been tuning out what he can hear of Coulson’s interview of Haugen through the comms, but he tunes back in when Skye speaks up. She and May have apparently found something, and Coulson comes over to show Grant on his phone. It’s a video, a newsfeed of rioting in Oslo, led by a man and woman who have spelled out the message WE ARE GODS in flames on the street.

“Well, I guess we know who they think they are,” Coulson says.

“Nice of them to write it in English,” he comments as Coulson takes the phone to show the ringleaders’ photo to Haugen. “Norwegian isn’t one of my languages.”

“Considerate criminals,” Jemma muses as she edges back down the tree. “Who’d have guessed?”

He moves forward to help her down, and she keeps hold of his hand once she’s on solid ground again. He’s glad to see she looks much more cheerful, presumably because the tree-climbing part of the day is done.

“Haugen confirms these two are our attackers,” Coulson says, joining them. “Pack it up. We’re done here.”

\---

On the way back to the Bus, Grant uses his tablet to run facial rec on the photo of the suspects while Jemma goes over the readings she got from the tree. Coulson spends the whole drive on the phone with HQ, apparently in search of contact information for Thor. It doesn’t seem to go well, judging by his tone.

Grant discovers that the rioters’ ringleaders are Jakob Nystrom and his girlfriend, Petra Larsen. They’re the leaders of a Norse Paganist hate group. Scrolling through the list of known members, he finds it distinctly worrying that Larsen is in possession of supernatural strength, and he fervently hopes that it’s not the kind of ability she can share with others, because a lot of these people appear dangerous enough without it.

He forwards the information SHIELD has on the group (not much) to Skye—she can’t access the SHIELD database, thanks to her tracking bracelet, but she’ll be able to pull more information from the internet in the next ten minutes than he’ll be able to find in the next two days.

\---

Back on the Bus, he and Jemma join Fitz and Skye in the lab to share information and examine the 3-D model Fitz printed. Grant fills them in on Nystrom and Larsen, while Skye provides more information on the hate group.

The 3-D model Fitz printed is incomplete; apparently, the scan only accounted for one side. Still, it’s something to go on, especially since, as Jemma points out, the rod is broken on both ends. Meaning there are at least two more pieces to whatever it is, which Nystrom and Larsen will presumably be looking for. If they can figure out what it is and where the other pieces are, they may be able to beat Nystrom and Larsen there—which would be preferable, since just one piece was enough to give Larsen super strength. Grant doesn’t want to think about what the whole thing might be capable of.

The markings would probably be a big clue but, as Coulson tells them when he enters the lab, SHIELD doesn’t have much in the way of knowledge about Asgardian language and symbolism. Skye suggests contacting Thor, but apparently he’s off the grid.

“SHIELD’s investigations are on the trail of Nystrom and his followers,” May says.

“We’re charged with identifying the object and finding any other pieces before they do,” Coulson finishes.

“They seem to have some advantage,” Grant points out. “They found this thing in 150 square kilometers of Norwegian forest.”

“Guys,” Skye says. “What if it called to them…with _magic_?”

Grant holds back a smile as Jemma rolls her eyes. He knows her opinion on magic, and her clear disgust at any suggestion of the concept is always weirdly amusing.

“Called to them?” May echoes dubiously.

“We know it’s Asgardian, so the rules are a little…bendy here,” Skye argues, not unreasonably. Still, Grant’s not going to be speaking up in favor of the concept. For one thing, he finds it pretty hard to believe, himself.

“Just because we don’t understand something yet doesn’t mean we should _regress_ back to the Dark Ages,” Jemma says, clearly offended by the mere thought. “Talking of _magic_ and fairy tales.”

“Actually,” Coulson says. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

“Excuse me?” Jemma asks, while a clearly delighted Skye says, “Really?”

Apparently Coulson consulted Elliot Randolph, a professor of Norse mythology at a university in Seville, when Thor’s hammer was first discovered. He’s hopeful that Randolph might be able to shed some light on the markings.

It’s a four hour flight, and there’s not much more they can do with the information they have, so Coulson dismisses them. By wordless agreement, they all head upstairs to the kitchen. It’s not quite lunch time, but they had a very early breakfast this morning, and they’re all starving.

\---

After lunch, the team (minus May, who takes the opportunity for a power nap) gathers in the lounge for a game of Clue. Over the last few weeks, when not busy almost dying or working themselves into exhaustion, they’ve collectively been making their way through the games in storage 2A, trying to find a game they all agree on and which no one has an unfair advantage in. So far they’ve discarded _Risk_ as boring to everyone except him and Coulson, _Life_ as too likely to devolve into throwing plastic children at each other, _Pictionary_ because Grant and Jemma (and Fitz and Jemma, and May and Coulson) have an unfair advantage, and _Jenga_ because that’s just a stupid thing to try to play on a plane. Skye’s been advocating some game called Cards Against Humanity, but since they don’t have it on the Bus, it’s pretty much a moot point.

Clue, however, goes surprisingly well. Or at least, it does until Jemma and Skye get so involved quoting the movie that they entirely lose track of whose turn it is. Grant doesn’t mind all that much, since he’s already out after making a completely wrong accusation (he guessed Colonel Mustard in the Library with the Wrench; it’s actually Mrs. White in the Study with the Rope) but, to his bemusement, Fitz is plainly irritated.

Not that the game has been interrupted, of course— _that_ Grant would understand. No, Fitz is just annoyed because, according to him, they aren’t quoting the movie correctly. Skye and Jemma insist that they are, and even as the plane lands they’re squabbling about the exact wording of one of the endings. Coulson’s lounging back against the couch, apparently content to let them fight it out, but Grant really doesn’t want to be here all day.

“Guys,” he says loudly. “Is it _really_ that big a deal how Wadsworth confused Miss Scarlet about the gun?”

“Yes,” all three of them say at once.

“More important than the Asgardian _weapon_ we need to find?” he asks pointedly.

“I suppose not,” Jemma sighs. She stands and steps away from the couch, then points at Fitz. “But the importance of our case doesn’t change the fact that it was one plus one plus two plus one.”

“It was _not_ —” Fitz begins, incensed.

“It so was,” Skye says over him.

“ _Children_ ,” Grant says. “Asgardian weapon? Mysterious properties? Norse Paganist hate group? Is _any_ of this ringing a bell?”

“Oh, fine,” Skye says. “FitzSimmons? There’s only one way to settle this.”

“Movie night?” Jemma asks brightly.

“Movie night,” Skye confirms.

“Movie night,” Fitz agrees.

“Great,” Coulson says. “Now that that’s settled, FitzSimmons, you’re with me. Skye, Ward, be ready to move as soon as Randolph gives us anything.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant says as Jemma and Fitz move to follow Coulson out of the lounge.

“Oh, and by the way,” Coulson adds, turning around. “It was Mrs. White in the Study with the Rope.”

\---

After cleaning up the game—something that Coulson always seems to get out of, but rank does have its privileges, Grant supposes—he drags Skye through some strength training. He’s let it slide, the past few days, since they didn’t really have any time to spare between trying to stop the flying menaces and track down their inventor, but she’s not really good enough yet that it’s okay to skip so many days.

She whines the whole time, of course, but she still does everything he tells her to, so he lets it go. She can complain as much as she likes, as long as she’s training while she does it.

Coulson calls just as they’re finishing to tell them that Professor Randolph is full of information. The metal rod taken from the tree is actually a part of the fabled berserker staff, which was brought to Earth by an Asgardian warrior millennia ago. There are three pieces, the location of which are described in entirely unhelpful verses that Grant dutifully copies down.

The verses, even if they are accurate (which is doubtful), are so vague as to be entirely useless. Luckily Randolph has a suggestion there, too—he directs them to Baffin Island, off the coast of Canada, as a place to start, and Coulson’s sending a local team to take a look. In the meantime, he wants Skye to look into old Viking routes.

Skye heads upstairs, muttering to herself about Coulson’s timing, calling _after_ she did all that work, and how it must be a conspiracy. Grant shakes his head and follows her. There’s nothing for him to do yet, so he might as well get some sleep in while he can. He has a feeling that this is going to be a _very_ long mission.

\---

Three hours of restless sleep later, Coulson catches him on his way out of his bunk. Apparently Baffin Island has a mountain called Mount Thor, but it does _not_ contain any Asgardian artifacts. Hopefully Skye has something, or they’re pretty much screwed.

Luckily, she does have something. In addition to a message board full of psychos, she’s discovered several Viking routes, one of which is right here in Seville.

“It’s a long shot,” she says, bringing up the map. “But Vikings sacked Seville twice.”

“We found one promising location with Viking relics,” May says as she enters. “El Divino Niño. A church built on the ruins of an eighth century crypt—built on _Roman_ ruins from 206 B.C.”

“East of a river,” Grant realizes, remembering the cryptic verses.

“And lots of bones,” Coulson finishes. “Let’s see what we can dig up.” He pushes away from the table and looks at them expectantly. “See what I did there?”

All three of them roll their eyes, which Coulson ignores, and follow Coulson out into the lounge. Jemma and Fitz are already there, sitting on the couch with their heads bent over Fitz’s tablet.

“Okay, we’ve got a possible location,” Coulson says. “Fitz, you and I are going to wait in the car and keep watch to see if any of Nystrom’s group show up. Skye and Ward will be entering the church to search for the berserker staff. May and Simmons will remain on the Bus and keep searching for potential locations. Any questions?”

Grant’s got a few—like why the more experienced May is staying on the Bus to look for locations while their hacker goes into the field—but since this way leaves Jemma well-protected, he keeps them to himself. It’s ludicrous that he’s still so uncomfortable leaving Jemma’s side, especially since this time _he’s_ the one who’s (hopefully) going to be messing with an alien artifact, but whatever. Love knows no logic.

And he’s really glad telepathy’s not real, because that is the most _ridiculous_ thought he’s ever had.

\---

When they reach the church, Fitz hands Skye and Grant each a tablet.

“You can use these to scan for Asgardian spectrographic signatures,” he says. “It will also allow us to monitor your progress and compare your location to the results of the long-range scan I’ll be running.”

“Long-range scan?” Skye asks, examining her tablet. “You mean you’ll be able to tell from out here whether there’s anything Asgardian in the church?”

“Basically,” Fitz agrees.

“So…why do we have to go in, then?”

“Because we want to make sure we’re in place to get it if it’s there,” Grant tells her. “ _Before_ Nystrom’s group can.”

“Oh, right,” Skye says. “In we go then?”

“In we go.”

The whole area is deserted, since it’s siesta time, and it’s easy enough to gain access to the crypt beneath the church unnoticed. The crypt is dusty, dark, and full of cobwebs—it’s obvious that no one’s been in it in a very long time.

“Ew,” Skye mutters. She looks warily at the hallway leading away from the other side of the room. “So, do you want to take the creepy hallway, or should I?”

He doesn’t see what makes the hallway any more creepy than the room they’re in, but he’s impressed by how little she’s complaining, so he’ll let her have this one.

“I’ll take the hallway,” he says, and makes his way down it without waiting for a response. He keeps his scanner and his flashlight up, but there’s no sign of anyone or anything.

Twenty minutes later, Skye’s just finished saying she’s got nothing when Fitz announces that there’s something near Grant. He glances at his tablet, then looks around, but he can’t see anything.

“Well, it’s right in front of you,” Fitz says. “Oh, wait, no…okay, hold on, it’s moving. Northwest.”

Just as he says it, Grant catches movement in his peripheral vision and instantly turns to follow it.

“Visual contact,” he reports as he gives chase.

“Okay, Ward, turn left,” Fitz orders unnecessarily.

He does so, and reaches out to grab the person—who he can see is carrying something that looks an awful lot like the piece of the berserker staff they’re here for. When he turns the man around, he’s surprised to find that it’s Elliot Randolph, the professor that gave them the information on the berserker staff in the first place. Grant hasn’t met him before, of course, but he looked up the man’s file after Coulson mentioned him earlier.

“I have a _wonderful_ explanation,” Randolph says weakly.

Wary of what it can do, Grant reaches for the berserker staff even as he makes his report. “Ran into some unexpected c—”

(Ashton’s at the bottom of the well, he’s drowning, crying out for help, but Grant _can’t_ help him, Maynard won’t let him—but if he doesn’t help, Ashton will die. Ashton’s _drowning_ , _dying_ , and it’s all Maynard’s fault, and Grant _hates_ Maynard, he wants to punch him right in his smug face, he wants to _rip_ Maynard’s throat out and make it so that Maynard can never hurt _anyone_ , ever again—)

There’s a touch on his shoulder, and he scrambles away from it, struggling to breathe. It takes him a few moments to realize that it’s Skye, and even longer to remember where he is and what’s happening.

The staff.

It’s gone, and so is Randolph, but Skye just stays on the ground in front of him, staring worriedly. He tries to tell her, but the words get tangled up, caught beneath the panic and rage, and he obviously doesn’t manage to express it well, because the first thing Skye reports is that something’s wrong with him.

There’s nothing wrong with him. (Wrong is Ashton drowning at the bottom of the well Jemma’s slowly dying but SHIELD expects him to kill her before the virus does Fitz is standing there actually believing that SHIELD is going to save them why won’t Maynard let him help—)

The memories play on a loop as he struggles for control. The next thing he knows is Jemma’s voice, calling his name. She sounds scared, and it gives him the extra push he needs to put the lid back on the box of his worst memories.

He opens his eyes—when did he close them?—and realizes he’s in the lab. He has no idea how or when they got back to the car, let alone the Bus, but here he is. Jemma’s standing in front of him, and when he focuses on her she takes his hand.

“Grant? Are you with us?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m fine.”

“Good,” she says. “That’s good. Can you tell me what happened?”

He feels a flash of annoyance—he told Skye what happened and she’s standing right there, Jemma has to know already, why is she wasting his time—but he shoves it away. There’s no reason to be angry at Jemma, he reminds himself. He’s the idiot that grabbed the ancient Asgardian artifact with his bare hand.

“Randolph,” he says, once he’s sure he’s calm enough not to snap at her. “He had a piece of the staff, and I grabbed it.”

“What happened when you grabbed it?” she presses gently.

She’s obviously trying not to irritate him, and perversely, that irritates him even more. Since when does she need to be so careful talking to him?

(Since now, you idiot, look how hard you’re fighting not to snap at her.)

“I saw something,” he says. “Bad memories.”

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “Are they gone now?”

He can feel them struggling to get out of the box, to make it back to his surface thoughts, and forces them farther back into his mind.

“Yeah.”

If Jemma doesn’t believe him, she doesn’t show it. “Good. I’m glad. Unfortunately, I’m still going to need to run some tests.”

He starts to protest, and she gives him a quelling look.

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you what happened the last time we encountered something alien,” she says quietly, and he swallows his complaints.

“No,” he agrees.

He removes his shirt when directed, lets her place sensors on his chest and neck, and stays quiet through several different scans. He struggles with his temper the entire time, uncomfortably aware of just how close to the surface his worst memories are, and the blood pressure cuff is pretty much the last straw.

“This is ridiculous,” he says, careful not to shout.

“It’s anything but,” Skye argues. “Ward, you _passed out_ , and you were acting not…right.”

“It’s just a precaution,” Jemma soothes. “Coulson wants a full work-up. It won’t be much longer.” She hesitates for a moment, then reluctantly continues. “Before you lost consciousness, were you feeling claustrophobic?”

Her hesitance makes his anger spike again, and his voice is sharper than he’d like when he asks, “Why?”

“She’s ruling out a panic attack,” Fitz supplies without looking up from his tablet.

“I don’t panic,” he tells them. “Ever.”

“There we go,” she says, falsely cheerful, and it grates on his nerves. “Ruled out.”

“Touching the staff caused it, right?” Skye asks. It’s a ridiculous, pointless, _obvious_ question, so he probably wouldn’t have answered it even if Jemma gave him the chance—which she doesn’t.

“Any residual effects?” she asks. “Are you exhibiting any extra…strength?”

His eyes catch on movement, and he looks up at the monitor to see that it’s displaying security feed from the Cage, where Coulson is apparently interrogating Randolph. There’s a very short moment of relief that the professor didn’t actually get away, but it’s quickly replaced by another surge of rage—they obviously didn’t manage to retrieve the staff from him, or _it_ would be in here under Jemma and Fitz’s scrutiny, instead of Grant.

“Why don’t I find out on that guy?” he suggests.

“Why don’t we _not_ do that?” Skye counters.

“What’s the last thing you remember before you lost consciousness?” Fitz asks.

His business-like tone reminds Grant of South Ossetia, the way Fitz continued to work on dismantling the overkill device, even though he knew it would spell his own death, and that’s what Grant’s thinking of as he pulls his arm out of the blood pressure cuff.

“This is a _waste of time_ ,” he snaps, standing. “We need to find the staff!”

“What exactly did you remember?” Fitz demands.

SHIELD abandoning us, he doesn’t say. SHIELD wanting me to kill Jemma.

“Something I hadn’t thought about in a long time,” he says instead.

“Why don’t we leave it alone?” Skye suggests.

Jemma and Fitz disagree—obviously they want to run more tests—and he snaps at them to be quiet. He can’t hear the interrogation over their chatter. He forcefully turns up the volume and makes himself focus on the feed instead of the worried look on Jemma’s face.

Coulson’s getting no answers from Randolph, who claims that he wanted to be the first to study the staff. It makes him even angrier, that he’s lost them the staff for such a stupid reason, and he’s considering going upstairs to have a word with the professor himself when the feed suddenly cuts off. He whirls around to face Jemma.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

“Your heart rate’s rising, adrenaline’s spiking,” she tells him calmly. “You need to calm down, not get worked up.”

He takes a deep breath and turns away. He wishes they were doing this anywhere but the lab. It’s so hard to ignore the memories, because only two weeks ago Jemma was locked in this very room, slowly dying. That only reminds him that last week Fitz nearly died on SHIELD’s watch—on _Grant’s_ watch—and Skye hasn’t nearly died for SHIELD yet, but it’s only a matter of time, really.

“The memory,” Skye says, like just thinking about her is enough to get her talking. “Was it about your brother?”

“Drop it,” he warns quietly.

But she doesn’t, and the box in his mind breaks open once again.

The memories aren’t overwhelming this time—he’s aware of where is he and what’s happening around him, at least vaguely, but his mind is still stuck on a loop: Ashton, drowning at the bottom of the well while Grant does nothing; waiting next to the warehouse in South Ossetia, the sudden realization that there’s no extraction coming; standing in the briefing room, knowing Jemma only has minutes left, May’s voice saying that Blake wants to talk to him—the sudden fury of knowing that he’s about to be ordered to kill his own soulmate.

He has no idea what he’s saying to Skye, the words tripping from his tongue automatically, but she’s shrinking back from him and that makes him even angrier, because he’s _not that person_ , he’s not his father, he’s not Maynard, he doesn’t _scare_ the people he cares about—

He’s pulled from the spiral of anger by a soft hand on his arm and Jemma’s quiet voice.

“That’s enough, Grant,” she says. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, tries to ignore his anger and focus on the way her thumb is rubbing circles on his arm. He forces the memories back, lets Jemma’s touch put a lid on the box, but the anger remains, simmering right beneath the surface.

There’s a long moment of silence, and he knows he should apologize to Skye, knows that whatever he just said to her was awful and entirely undeserved, but he’s afraid to open his mouth—afraid of losing control again, this time at Jemma.

“Perhaps you should spend some time with your punching bag,” Jemma suggests eventually. “Use up some of your adrenaline.”

He nods, still keeping his mouth clamped shut, and lets her lead him out of the lab, grabbing his shirt as he goes.

“We’ll be right in here,” she continues soothingly. “If you need us.”

He pulls the sensors from his chest and hands them to her silently, and while she looks disapproving, she accepts them without comment, simply squeezing his arm once and heading back into the lab. He notices the door slide shut behind her, instead of staying open as it usually does, and strangely enough, it doesn’t make him angrier. It makes him feel strangely bereft.

Feeling oddly exposed, he pulls on his shirt and turns to the punching bag. His gloves are upstairs, but he really can’t be bothered to go get them, especially since it would mean passing the Cage. He doesn’t think that he’ll be able to control himself if he gets that close to Randolph.

He loses himself in the rhythm of the punching bag, lets the memories take over and tries to use up the rage. He needs to control it somehow. The fact that he just lost it at Skye, that he couldn’t risk speaking for fear of losing it at _Jemma_ , shows just how badly he’s been affected. He needs to control it, or he’ll be no use at all.

So he swings methodically at the bag as he lives those moments over and over again. Ashton at the bottom of the well. Jab-Jab-Cross. Fitz expecting an extraction. Jab-Cross-Hook. Jemma running out of time. Jab-Hook-Jab. There are other memories there, too, trying to drag him under, but those three are the ones he can’t control, can’t push away.

He has no idea how long he spends at the bag, spiraling deeper and deeper into his hate and rage, but he’s finally pulled out of it by a touch to his shoulder. He registers the callouses automatically—not Jemma, not Fitz, not Skye…not _safe_ —and whirls around and strikes out. May dodges it easily, and he takes a few steps back, swallowing.

“You should be more careful,” he says.

He’s surprised to see that the lab is empty. He never even noticed Jemma, Fitz, and Skye leaving. He doesn’t know what time it is or what’s going on with their case. He’s never been so off balance before, and it makes him even angrier—if that’s even possible.

“I’m _fine_ ,” May says angrily, stepping closer. “You?”

He turns back to the punching bag. “Working it out.”

“You’re punching things,” she says. “The last thing you need is to punch things.”

He leans against the bag, trying to keep his rage down. He knows he would need a lot more than Asgardian strength to win against May. “You got a better idea?”

“Let me help you,” she says softly.

Help? Who the fuck does she think she is? She thinks she can help him when Jemma couldn’t? She thinks he _needs_ help?

“The only help I need is to stop those guys before they hurt somebody else.”

He resumes his attack on the bag—and that’s what it is, really, it’s nothing like training—and eventually, May leaves. It’s enough to make him think, though. He’s barely hanging on to his control right now. All of the horrible memories he usually keeps locked away are fighting their way to the forefront of his mind. Right now it’s just the three, but how long until he loses his grip on the rest of them, as well? He’s so buried in his rage and hate that he’s completely lost track of himself. He doesn’t know what he said to Skye, except that it was horrible and she didn’t deserve it. He doesn’t know if Randolph has talked. He doesn’t know if the team’s made any progress.

He doesn’t know where Jemma is or when she left the lab. He doesn’t know what time it is, not for sure, but it must be night by now. Is she asleep? She hasn’t slept without him since she nearly died; he doesn’t know how she’ll manage. What if she’s having nightmares? What if she’s been suffering while he’s been down here, battering uselessly at a punching bag?

He can’t even control his rage enough to take care of his soulmate. He’ll be useless in a fight. If the team has to face down Nystrom’s group, they’ll need a _competent_ specialist, not  one who’s so lost in his own head that he doesn’t even notice when someone as dangerous as May is standing right behind him.

The memories are back in their box for the moment, but he has no idea how long that will last. He needs to step down. It’s the last thing he wants, but it’s necessary.

So he leaves the cargo bay and heads for Coulson’s office. He doesn’t take the stairs, since that would take him straight past the Cage, and he honestly doesn’t think he would be able to stay out of it. However many hours he just spent assaulting the punching bag weren’t enough to make even the slightest dent in his rage.

Instead, he detours through the storage area and takes the ladder up to the cabin floor, then the stairs to Coulson’s office. He knocks and then slides the door open without waiting for a response.

“A moment, sir?”

“Come on in,” Coulson says.

He means to respectfully request removal from the field and suggest someone who can temporarily take his place. Instead, he finds himself telling Coulson about how his usual method of coping is failing, how he needs to keep his bad memories on lockdown in order to his job. The words come pouring out, one after another, and he has very little control over them. He manages to imply that the memories tormenting him are all from his childhood, so that’s a victory, but it’s a small one.

He can’t even control his own damn mouth; he’s entirely useless like this.

“I don’t trust myself,” he admits (and why the hell is he still talking?). “The way I went off at Skye in the lab—”

“Grant,” Coulson interrupts, and he’s so shocked by the use of his first name that for a second he’s not even angry. “You telling me this…makes me feel I can trust you.”

That means something. He doesn’t know why, or even _what_ it means, but it means something that being overly honest puts that look on Coulson’s face. So he nods, silently, unable to think of a response.

Coulson pushes away from his desk. “ _Him_ , on the other hand,” he says, approaching the monitor displaying the security feed from the Cage. “I can’t get the professor to talk. You’ve got some rage built up?”

Grant tears his eyes away from the security feed to look down at Coulson.

“Maybe it’s time to let it out,” Coulson suggests.

He looks back at the screen. Coulson’s not the type for torture, unfortunately, but he does seem to delight in playing mind games. That’s probably what he’s suggesting.

“It would be my pleasure, sir,” Grant says, watching the professor fidget. He’s definitely hiding something, and Grant will be all too happy to pull it out of him.

The only problem is going to be resisting the urge to use his knife to do it.

\---

As it happens, resisting the urge to use his knife is not a problem, because it’s exactly what Coulson wants him to do. Coulson thinks that Randolph might actually _be_ Asgardian, and he’s decided that the best way to prove it one way or the other is to have Grant go after him with a knife.

He thinks there are some flaws in that logic, but since he gets to take a knife to the man responsible for his current lack of calm, he’s not about to complain.

Of course, if Randolph’s _not_ Asgardian, then Grant could very easily kill him before Coulson could do anything to interfere. It’s tempting, incredibly so, but the consequences outweigh any potential satisfaction—he would be pulled from the team, for sure, and he can’t allow that. Still, he doesn’t know how rational he’ll be able to remain in the Cage, not when his blood is still boiling and it’s a constant fight to keep his worst memories from overwhelming him, so he asks Coulson to give him a moment to center himself before they deal with Randolph.

“Take your time,” Coulson says gently, his eyes full of too much understanding, and Grant does _not_ run from the office…but it’s a close thing.

He goes downstairs, intending to check on Jemma, and finds her bunk empty. For a moment he panics, and the rage surges within him—she’s been taken, who took her, where is she—but he shoves it down enough for rational thought to return. It’s a big plane; there are plenty of places she might be. He should at least check the lab before he sounds the alarm.

He’s heading for the ladder that leads down to the storage area when he notices that the door to his bunk is closed. He usually leaves it open when he’s not in it, just in case something happens and he needs to make a run for his weapons, so he crosses the cabin and slides the door open.

Jemma’s asleep on his bed, curled up with her back against the wall. She’s sleeping quietly, no sign of nightmares, and just the sight of her peaceful face is enough to bring him a rush of calm.

He spends a few minutes standing in the doorway, watching the rise and fall of her chest, just absorbing the truth that she’s here, she’s fine, she’s safe. It helps. It helps a lot. It certainly does more than all those hours with the punching bag did. May was right; he was wasting his time with that.

It’s tempting to just crawl into bed with Jemma, wrap himself around her and forget about Asgardians and hate groups and everything else, but he knows he can’t. He gives himself another thirty seconds to imprint the memory of her peaceful face in his mind, then leaves his bunk, sliding the door closed behind him.

Coulson’s waiting in the lounge, and they exchange silent nods as Grant walks by. He hesitates outside of the Cage, double checks that he’s got a handle on his rage—still there, but nowhere near as intense—then shoves the door open.

\---

Sure enough, Randolph is Asgardian. He easily bends the knife Grant pulls on him—thankfully one of Coulson’s—and, confronted with what Coulson’s picked out about him, not to mention the evidence he’s just provided them, he finally starts talking. And it turns out that he’s not just _an_ Asgardian, he’s _the_ Asgardian—the one who hid the berserker staff in the first place.

Grant’s honestly not interested in the hows or whys of Randolph’s story getting shared with the masses. He wants to know where they can find the third piece of the staff and how to make it stop affecting him. Randolph claims that the staff “shines a light” into his “dark places”, which is entirely unhelpful, and he doesn’t offer an explanation of how to end the staff’s influence. He does, when threatened with Thor, finally share the location of the third piece, which is apparently in an old monastery in Ireland.

At Coulson’s nod, Grant leaves the Cage and goes to wake the rest of the team. He sends Jemma, Fitz, and Skye to the briefing room with instructions to watch the last ten minutes of footage from the Cage, then tells May to set a course for Ireland.

That done, he takes a seat in the lounge. He doesn’t dare go back in the Cage, since his anger is boiling over again just from the few minutes he spent in there, and he can’t join the others in the briefing room for the same reason. So he sits on the couch and concentrates on taking deep breaths and shoving his rage back down. The memories are in check, at least for the moment, but the emotions are harder to control.

Jemma comes and joins him, eventually, and he resists the urge to wrap an arm around her and pull her close. Holding her would help, he thinks, but with the way his emotions are all over the place, he doesn’t know how well he can control this unnatural strength, and he won’t risk hurting Jemma.

She seems to understand, since she loops her arm through his instead of taking his hand, as she usually would. She leans against him, her head on his shoulder, and they sit in comfortable silence for nearly an hour. He’s not even sure she’s awake, but it doesn’t matter. It’s enough to have her here, touching him, trusting him—initiating contact even after seeing the way he lost it at Skye and went crazy on the punching bag. He hadn’t realized, until just now, how worried he was that he scared her earlier. Knowing that he didn’t…he imagines he can feel the rage just leeching right out of him, and while he knows it won’t last, it’s a welcome reprieve.

“I’ve been meaning to say,” she eventually says. “I really like this shirt.”

“What?” he asks, looking down at her.

“This shirt,” she says, plucking at the bottom of his sleeve with her free hand. “I like it. It suits you.”

“Thank you,” he says, a little confused. He can’t remember her ever commenting on his clothing choices before, and this seems like a weird time to start.

“You look good in black,” she continues, still fiddling with his sleeve. “I suppose that’s fortunate, since you do wear rather a lot of it.”

He tugs pointedly on the hem of _her_ shirt, which is also black. Of course, it’s also covered in flowers, but…technicalities.

“It was just an observation,” she says, playfully defensive. “I didn’t say there’s anything _wrong_ with it.”

He knows there’s something he should say here, some witty comment he would usually make—something he could say to make her laugh—but he’s got nothing. His mind is so tangled up that he can barely think, let alone speak.

Jemma’s smile fades and her hand stills on his wrist. “Do you—would you like to talk about it?”

He looks down at her, takes in her uncertain expression, the way she’s biting her lip. He tries to picture telling her what he’s been remembering, how SHIELD’s multiple betrayals have been driving him into new heights of wrath every time he thinks of them. How in the past month alone he’s made two new memories that are bad enough to compare to a memory that’s haunted him for twenty years. A memory she knows about only in the vaguest terms—he told her, once, that he didn’t learn to stand up to Maynard until Ashton nearly died, but he didn’t give her any details, and she didn’t press.        

He can’t tell her. He’s afraid he’ll give too much away, show too much of the hate he holds for SHIELD. He can’t afford to let that show.

“No,” he says finally. “I really wouldn’t. But thanks.”

“Of course,” she says. “And if you change your mind…”

“I’ll let you know,” he promises.

They fade back into comfortable silence, and it seems like no time at all before the plane is landing and Coulson uses the intercom to summon them to the cargo bay.

\---

Randolph says that the strength will fade soon enough, but the rage will take decades. Grant hopes he’s joking, thinks he might be—the guy’s obviously an asshole. They had to threaten him with divine retribution in the form of Thor just to get him to help them try and stop Nystrom, after all.

But Randolph’s blasé attitude about the way Grant is suffering, combined with the fact that Coulson is insisting on Jemma, Fitz, and Skye accompanying them to the monastery, means that all of the calm he gained from Jemma evaporates, instantly replaced by rage and hate in equal measures.

He reminds himself again and again on the drive over that he can handle this situation. He has the strength of an Asgardian warrior, at least for the moment. Even if Nystrom’s group somehow figures out where the last piece of the staff is hidden, Grant can take them. Jemma will be fine. So will Fitz and Skye.

There’s absolutely nothing to worry about, no reason to lose his cool.

Except, of course there is. Because somehow, Nystrom has managed to decipher the incredibly vague clue that leads to this monastery, and he beat them here. He uses the last piece of the berserker staff to stab Randolph in the heart, and Grant knows what he has to do. One piece was bad enough, and adding another is sure to make things exponentially worse—maybe even bad enough that he loses control completely—but Nystrom’s got a whole group behind him, presumably under the power of the berserker staff, and Grant needs more strength than he has if he’s going to cross them all off.

He doesn’t hesitate; he kneels next to Randolph and yanks the staff out of his chest. He lets the rage fill him, and uses it as leverage as he tackles Nystrom off the balcony.

He can’t quite keep track of what happens next, fighting with his memories the way he is. He’s fighting Nystrom, losing against him, then Nystrom is gone and Skye and May are talking to him, trying to calm him down. Then the door opens and more of Nystrom’s group enters. He needs to be stronger. He needs to be stronger and there’s another piece of the staff on the ground, so he kneels down and picks it up, still holding the piece he took from Randolph’s chest in his other hand.

The rage sweeps over him, stronger than ever before, and he loses himself in it. He throws himself headfirst into the memory of hate, and what happens next he’ll never remember.

\---

When he comes back to himself, he’s on his knees near the altar and all of Nystrom’s men are down. He’s sore all over, his ribs screaming in pain, and he’s vaguely aware that his face is bleeding. The strength seems to have finally worn off, even though he’s still holding both of the pieces; he can’t keep himself up, falling first onto his hands and then his side.

Skye’s there in seconds, helping him sit up and pulling his arm over her shoulder. He knows she’s saying something, but he doesn’t even have time to process the sounds into words before the door slams open and Petra Larsen walks in, holding the third piece of the staff.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Skye mutters.

Grant starts to shift away from her, reaching for the pieces of the staff on the ground, but May grabs his wrist before he can move more than an inch.

“This time,” she says. “Let me help.”

He lets her. He doesn’t have any other choice, because he honestly doesn’t think he can stand on his own. So he lets her push him back, lets Skye help him walk away, and trusts that May has this.

She does, of course. It doesn’t even take her ten seconds to take down the man with Larsen, and it’s barely longer than that before she’s got all three pieces of the staff, magically welded back into one piece. All it takes is one hit and Larsen’s down, and May puts the staff down easily. She’s showing no signs of the rage he’s still struggling with, and he gives her an impressed nod.

She might hate the name, but there’s a damn good reason that every SHIELD agent to ever pass through any one of the Academies knows about the Cavalry.

\---

Coulson calls in a local team to deal with the clean-up, but they hang around while the bodies of Nystrom’s group are cleared away. Grant leans against a table, still not entirely capable of standing unaided, and watches silently. Jemma, Coulson, and Fitz apparently saved Randolph’s life while Grant and May were dealing with the hate group, and he can hear her telling Skye about it. He only got a very brief account of the story earlier when Jemma patched him up, and he thinks about joining them to hear the rest of it, but ultimately he decides against it.

The memories seem to have faded away with the Asgardian strength. They’re safely back in their box now, where they won’t bother him any more than they usually do. But the rage isn’t gone. It’s muted now, buried under his exhaustion, but it’s still there. He really hopes Randolph was joking about it taking decades to wear off, because there’s no way he can live like this.

May joins him, and there’s something he needs to know, but he has no idea how to ask her. Before he gets the chance to even consider his wording, though, he’s distracted by the sound of Jemma’s phone. The ringtone reminds him of Fitz, in the kitchen two (or was it three?) days ago, asking him to talk to Jemma about her parents. He completely forgot.

Too scared to go near her, for fear of hurting her. Too selfish to remember that she’s struggling with her own problems. What kind of soulmate is he?

Still, she seems to have worked through the problem, because she actually answers the phone. He watches her walk by, speaking to her father, and gives up on finding a good way to word his question.

“When you held it,” he says. “Did you see anything?”

May nods, silently.

“Then how?” he asks. “How did you hold _all three_?”

“Because I see it every day,” she answers, not looking at him. Before he can figure out what to say to that, she walks away, and he stares after her.

He does need help, he admits to himself. Help that Jemma can’t give him. He loves her, and he knows she would try her best, but there’s just no way she can understand the kind of rage he’s been dealing with—the kind of memories that overwhelmed him today. She’s a scientist, not a specialist, and he’s honestly grateful for that, but it means that she just can’t comprehend this. He’s glad she can’t, really. He would never wish this on her. On anyone.

\---

Coulson uses the expense account to rent them rooms again, this time at a very nice hotel in Dublin. Like last time, he doesn’t even bother to rent Grant and Jemma separate rooms. Grant’s not as grateful for it as he was last time, however. Right now all he wants to do is take advantage of the bar next to the lobby, give drinking his rage away a shot.

Jemma follows his gaze and smiles a little. “Go ahead.”

“What?”

“I’m going upstairs, but you should stay here. Have a drink,” she says. “Have twenty, even. I’d say you’ve more than earned it.”

He takes a deep breath. “It’s not that I don’t—”

“I know,” she interrupts. “It’s fine, Grant, really.” She gets on her toes and kisses him, gently, then squeezes his arm and backs away. “Take as much time as you need. I’ll be upstairs.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“Take your time,” she reminds him, then walks away.

He thinks about following her, about forgetting alcohol and trying to bury his rage in her, instead, but he’s still not sure of his control. He can’t risk it. So he takes a seat at the bar and orders a drink. And another.

He’s on his fourth drink when Skye joins him.

“I’m sorry,” he says as soon as she sits down.

She looks around like she thinks he’s talking to someone else. “For what?”

“Before,” he says. “In the lab. You were just trying to help and I was _way_ out of line. I’m—I’m not that guy. And I’m sorry.”

“No harm, no foul,” she says. “I probably shouldn’t have pushed. I know you’re not the talking type.”

“No,” he agrees. He’s relieved by the easy forgiveness, but he still feels like he owes her something. So he knocks back the rest of his drink and opens up a little. “What I saw…it was about my brother.”

“I figured,” she says, her eyes soft with sympathy. He’s surprised by a sudden rush of affection for her. Skye cares. She cares so much about everything and everyone, in an entirely different way than Jemma does. It used to annoy him. Now, it worries him.

Caring is a weakness, and he doesn’t know that he’s strong enough to protect her. Not when he’s like this.

“I know you’re not the talking type,” she says, putting her hand on his. “But, like I said, I’m here. My shoulder’s free.”

He smiles, a little. “Thanks. But I’m beat. And Jemma’s waiting for me.”

“Well,” she says. “You know where I live.”

“I do,” he says, pushing away from the bar. “Thank you.”

The drinks haven’t helped much at all. He’s honestly exhausted, ready to drop where he stands, but there’s still that knot of rage in his chest, just waiting to be set off, and he finds himself hesitating outside of his and Jemma’s room.

He’s scared of losing control. He knows, all too well, the sort of things he’s capable of when he’s truly furious. He also knows how fragile Jemma is, how breakable. Emotionally, she’s a strong person, but physically? He could snap her like a twig. And he’s afraid that he actually might. He’s utterly terrified that he’s going to lose his grip on his rage and take it out on her. So he lingers in the hall, unwilling to enter the room but just as unwilling to sleep somewhere else.

Movement catches his attention, and he sees May leaving her room at the other end of the hallway. She jerks her head in a clear signal to follow her and heads for the elevators.

As he watches her walk away, he finds himself remembering last week, when he asked her to watch out for Jemma while he and Fitz went on their mission. It was ridiculous, asking a trained specialist to babysit a SHIELD scientist in the middle of the Hub, but she agreed right away. Because she understands. She understands what it’s like to love someone who’s completely incapable of protecting themselves  from the endless danger the world has to offer. And she understands the rage, the hate, and the flood of memory that comes with the berserker staff.

Maybe she really can help.

He hesitates for a second longer, then follows her. She doesn’t speak as she leads him to the top floor, then up a staircase and out onto the roof, but he finds himself relaxing, anyway. There’s something reassuringly solid about Melinda May. It might just be that he knows she can take him, trusts that she’ll take him down if he loses control—the exact reason doesn’t matter. He’s just glad to shed some of the worry.

They sit on the edge of the roof, and after a while, she begins to speak. She tells him about Bahrain—not what happened there, which he already knows, but the aftermath. She tells him about learning to live with the constant rage. She said earlier that she sees it every day, and now he knows what she meant, as she instructs him firmly, but kindly, in how to _use_ the rage instead of just burying it.

It will take time to learn, she warns him, but he’ll get there eventually. And in the meantime, she’ll help.

It won’t be easy, he knows, and he’ll definitely struggle with it, but it’s a relief just to have a road map. Just the slightest guidance is enough to ease even more of his worry.

After an hour, he starts getting twitchy, worrying about Jemma, and when May gives him a weird look he finds himself telling her about it. The words just pour out of him, all about how ever since Jemma nearly died he can’t stand to be away from her for more than a few hours, or he starts freaking out. He tells her about all of the awful things he imagines happening as soon as his back is turned, and then he tells her about his new worries, brought on by his loss of control today. He confesses that he still doesn’t remember what happened in the monastery. He’s got multiple bruises and abrasions in addition to two cracked ribs, and he has no idea how he got any of them.

He tells her everything, holds nothing but his true loyalty back, and he could say that he’s repaying the favor after her earlier honesty, but the truth is that he just can’t stop himself.

May listens in silence until he’s done, then sighs quietly. “My soulmate is an English teacher in Poland.”

She hesitates, staring out at the skyline, and he waits.

“The first time after meeting him that I left on assignment, I called in three favors with Romanoff to have her watch him until I got back,” she finally continues. “Absolutely nothing happened. The next time, I asked Hand. Then Hill. Then Romanoff again. It was nearly six years before I stopped keeping him under guard.”

He has no idea what to say. He thought she was unusually honest earlier, talking about Bahrain, but this is twenty times more personal.

“In all these years, he’s never once been threatened. But I still worry,” she concludes. “It’s not ridiculous, Ward. It’s human.”

“Thank you,” he says finally. “That…helps.”

It really does. It doesn’t do anything to solve his inability to leave Jemma for longer than two hours, of course, but just knowing that he’s not alone…

The rage is almost completely banked now, mere embers of what, earlier, was a violent bonfire. He thinks he’ll be okay, at least for the rest of the night. And he really can’t stand to be away from Jemma any longer.

“Thank you,” he repeats, standing. “For…all of this.”

She nods silently, making no move to get up, and he leaves her there on the roof, still staring out at the skyline. He wonders if she’s missing her soulmate, if being on the same side of the Atlantic right now makes it better or worse. He’s suddenly, deeply grateful to Coulson for letting him stay on the team with Jemma. It’s difficult, letting her go into the field, bringing her into danger, but…to be away from her for months at a time? He thinks that would be even harder.

\---

He’s surprised to find Jemma still awake when he enters their room. She’s in bed, her back resting against the headboard as she reads something on her tablet, and she looks up with a bright smile as he closes the door.

“You’re looking better,” she observes, sounding pleased. “Did the drinking help?”

“Not even a little,” he says, kicking off his shoes.

“Well something did,” she says, watching him while he pulls off his socks.

“I talked to May,” he tells her over his shoulder as he heads into the bathroom. He’s exhausted, and he wants nothing more than to collapse into bed next to her, but the lingering taste of alcohol in his mouth is unpleasant.

He brushes his teeth quickly, and goes back into the bedroom to find that Jemma has set aside her tablet and is lying down, propped up on one elbow.

“And Agent May helped?” she asks.

“A lot,” he confirms. He strips off his shirt, then pauses in the middle of unbuttoning his jeans. If it bothers her that he chose to confide in May instead of her, she’s hiding it well, but he still feels the need to apologize. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you. I just…”

“You and May have a lot in common,” she says serenely. “I’m glad she could help you.”

“It really doesn’t bother you?” he checks, as he climbs into bed.

“I do wish I could help you, I won’t deny that,” she says. “But…just so long as _someone_ helps you, I’m happy.”

He hooks an arm around her waist and slides her across the bed until she’s pressed right up against him.

“You do help me,” he murmurs, bending his head to kiss her. He remembers the way his anger melted away earlier, watching her sleep, and then again in the lounge. Just the sight of her is enough to do what three hours of conversation with May accomplished. “More than you can imagine.”

“Good,” she says quietly. “I’m glad.” She kisses him once, twice. “And I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says. He tries to pull her closer, but she stops him.

“I can’t lie on top of you,” she tells him, gently resting her hand against his bruised ribs. “Not tonight.”

“Right,” he agrees, amused to realize that, in all of his emotional turmoil, he’s actually forgotten about his injuries. “Good point.”

She carefully climbs over him, then lies down on her side, facing the door. This makes it possible for him to lie down on his unbruised side and wrap himself around her. It’s still enough to make his ribs ache, just a little, but that’s outweighed by the comfort of having her so close.

He tucks his face against her neck, breathes in the scent of her shampoo, and listens as her breathing gradually slows. His anger is almost entirely gone, replaced by an overwhelming sense of peace he’s never found anywhere else.

“You do help me,” he repeats quietly to his sleeping soulmate.

He’d like to say it was his plan all along, but truthfully, it doesn’t occur to him until he’s nearly asleep just what he’s accomplished tonight. May told him about her soulmate. She told him about Bahrain, and the way it affected her, and how she controls the rage it left inside of her. She willingly shared information that he could use to hurt her, and she didn’t seem to think twice about it.

Tonight, finally, he’s gained May’s trust.

And if that thought leaves him feeling strangely sick, well…he’s just had too much to drink. That’s all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might be a while; the summer semester wraps up next week, and I've got a lot of work to do. Of course, writing fic is a great way to procrastinate, so who knows? Just stay tuned, I guess.


	9. Repairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Index Asset Evaluation and Intake goes wrong. Absolutely no one is surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks once again for all of the comments and kudos! I know I said this chapter might be a while, but my brain absolutely refused to focus on my case study until I got it done, so here we are again.
> 
> Second of all, the lovely, amazing sapphireglyphs made an absolutely beautiful edit for this series, which you should definitely check out here: http://sapphireglyphs.tumblr.com/post/93544311794/before-you-fall-series-by-shineyma-w-x. Seriously, it's perfect, go check it out.
> 
> I think that's it, so...
> 
> Thank you for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Once all of the reports for the berserker staff incident are filed and the debrief is complete, HQ finally allows the team the leave Coulson requested two missions ago. They return to the United States, landing in California, for some reason, and Coulson offers hotel rooms to anyone who wants them, explaining them away as a reward for how hard they’ve been working.

Grant and Jemma take shameless advantage of it; aside from a brief trip to a drug store for some necessary purchases, they don’t leave the hotel for five days. Actually, they barely leave the room.

There’s a surprisingly well-equipped exercise room on the second floor that Grant uses for his training and there’s a continental breakfast just off the lobby every morning for when they get tired of room service. Additionally, Grant spends two hours every morning on the roof with May, receiving instruction in Tai Chi and practicing controlling the lingering rage the berserker staff unearthed. Other than that, though, Grant and Jemma pretty much stay in the room.

The days pass pleasantly, in a haze of sex and laughter and plenty of quiet, companionable moments. It’s a welcome relief from the stress and chaos of the last few weeks; Jemma’s nightmares have lessened, and it’s easy enough to keep his anger under control when it’s just the two of them. Fitz and Skye invade their room on Saturday for the previously planned movie night, but Grant finds that not only does he not mind it, he actually has fun. Not that he lets on, of course—he wouldn’t want them to get too comfortable intruding on his and Jemma’s brief opportunities for privacy.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end, and they’re just getting dressed after a very enjoyable shower when both of their phones beep at once. Jemma, closer to the nightstand, picks hers up and frowns at it.

“We have a mission,” she says. “I think.”

“You think?” he asks, sitting down on the bed to pull his boots on.

“Well, it’s from Skye,” she tells him. “And what it _says_ is that we have a muffin.”

Grant leans over to snag his phone and, sure enough, that’s exactly what the text message says. He unlocks his phone, intending to text her back and ask for clarification, but before he can, he gets two more messages. The first one says _we have a MISSION not muffin. wheels up at nine_ and the second one says _but now I want a muffin please bring one_.

He rolls his eyes, but Jemma makes a thoughtful noise. “A muffin does sound nice, doesn’t it? Do we have enough time?”

“If we hurry,” he says. He stands and shoves his phone into his pocket. “We’d better get packing.”

Jemma nods and heads back into the bathroom to grab their shower kits, while he pulls their suitcases out of the closet. He’s a little regretful to be leaving, which surprises him a bit. He’s not made for inactivity, and, despite how much he’s enjoyed the uninterrupted alone time with Jemma, he’s honestly been getting kind of bored. Still, it’s been nice, having time with Jemma—and occasionally the others—without needing to worry about her safety.

And there’s something else to worry about now, too. Thus far, between the instruction from May and the fact that he’s been spending nearly all of his time with Jemma, who has a calming effect on him, it’s been simple enough to keep control  of his rage, aside from the occasional flare-up. Out in the field, though, there are sure to be plenty of irritants that will lead to his anger spiking again.

But there’s nothing for it. He has a job to do, and that’s that.

\---

Back on the Bus, once they’ve dropped their things off in their rooms, they go to the kitchen and eat their muffins while Skye and Fitz fill them in on their mission. Apparently they’re being called in to evaluate a potential member of the Index—something that makes Grant a little wary, since that’s what the last mission started as, too. He really hopes the woman, a potential telekinetic by the name of Hannah Hutchins, isn’t in possession of an Asgardian artifact.

In this case, though, Hutchins hasn’t attacked anyone, at least not purposefully. Hutchins is a quality-control engineer at a particle acceleration lab. And not a very good one, judging by a recent explosion, which left four technicians dead. Between the deaths of her coworkers and the fact that the town blames her, Hutchins is likely to be highly emotional—not a comforting thought, when there’s a possibility that she has telekinetic powers.

According to Fitz, the Department of Energy has determined that the lab is too dangerous to enter, but he and Jemma think that they can still get data on the explosion from the instruments. They quickly finish their respective muffins and head for the lab, arguing about the likelihood of a particle accelerator exploding causing someone to develop telekinesis.

Grant shakes his head as he watches them go, amused. Knowing how much the two of them love scientific puzzles, he’s honestly impressed that they stayed long enough to finish their muffins.

“Anything else I should know?” he asks Skye, turning back to his own muffin.

“Just that Coulson wants you and May to go with him to talk to Hannah,” Skye says.

Grant nods. It’s really the only sensible course of action. Hutchins is potentially very dangerous, and as specialists, he and May are more likely to do well in a fight with someone who can throw things around with her mind.

Actually, it’s a lot more caution than Coulson has been displaying, lately. Maybe all of these near-death experiences are finally taking their toll on the man. If so, it’s about time.

\---

LA to Utah isn’t a long flight at all, and less than two hours later, they’re pulling up at Hutchins’ house. They find the front yard full of people, most of whom are shouting about Hutchins being a murderer, while Hutchins herself is standing on the front porch, watching them. There are several police officers apparently trying to contain the situation, but they’re not doing a very good job of it.

Grant has to take a moment to marvel at the stupidity on display. These people obviously think that Hutchins purposefully killed those four men, and they’ve decided the best thing to do is harass her? Really? Idiots.

Still, if Hutchins does have powers, the last thing they need is for the crowd to provoke her. May is hanging back, helping the police keep the crowd away, and Coulson immediately asks the officer on the porch if he can get the crowd dispersed. The man’s answer is a very unhelpful comment about it being a free country, and Coulson shoots a wary look at the mob before turning to Hutchins and introducing himself.

“Have you come to lock me up?” she asks tearily.

“To talk,” Grant corrects.

Hutchins looks at him, then glances at the crowd. “Well, what good will that do?”

Before either of them have a chance to reply, an egg splatters against the front door, and there’s a resurgence of shouting from the crowd. Grant orders the officers to get the crowd back, but before they can comply, the police car parked down the street begins to speed towards the house. Coulson and Grant both move forward, Coulson tackling a man out of the car’s path and Grant trying to get a look at the driver.

There isn’t one.

The car takes out part of the fences and smashes into the garage, and there’s a very brief moment of silence. Then one of the women on the lawn accuses Hutchins—“that freak”—of trying to kill them all, and the cop on the porch with them pulls his gun on her.

“Easy, officer,” Grant says, extending a hand as Hutchins backs away. “Put the gun down.”

The officer slowly lowers his gun as Hutchins claims innocence and Coulson tries to calm her down. She’s obviously frantic, and in wake of the driverless car, it’s honestly making Grant a little nervous.

He’s not the only one. There’s the unmistakable sound of the night-night gun, and Grant whirls to see Hutchins falling, revealing May standing in the driveway, gun still raised.

“Time to go,” she says.

“So much for the welcome wagon,” Coulson says as Grant crouches to check on Hutchins. She’s fine, just unconscious, the night-night gun having done its job well. It has a really stupid name, but no one can argue with results.

Coulson gives him a nod, so Grant easily picks up Hutchins and carries her to the car. The crowd pulls back to allow him to pass, most of them muttering to each other, obviously concerned about strangers swooping in and knocking Hutchins unconscious. Regardless of how much they blame her, the Men in Black thing isn’t sitting well, so they need to get out of here, quick.

Skye’s standing next to the SUV, glaring at May, and he has to say her name twice to get her attention.

“What?” she snaps, finally pulling her eyes away from May. Then she looks down his arms, currently full of the unconscious Hutchins, and smiles sheepishly. “Oh.”

She opens the door for him, and he carefully maneuvers Hutchins into the back seat. It’ll be a tight fit, having the three of them in the back. They really should have thought this through better.

“Let’s get her back to the Bus,” Coulson says. “We’ll update FitzSimmons on the way.”

Jemma and Fitz are currently at the lab where the explosion occurred, taking readings with the DWARFs. Grant was uneasy about letting them go alone, of course, but there are still local SHIELD agents on the scene, and there’s no reason to expect trouble at the closed site. Especially since Jemma and Fitz aren’t even allowed to go into the building.

Still, he won’t be able to relax until they’re safely back on the Bus, and he’s glad to hear from Coulson, once he’s hung up with Jemma and Fitz, that the two scientists are nearly finished. With any luck, they’ll get Hutchins off to the Fridge and have this whole case over with by tomorrow.

\---

Jemma and Fitz actually beat them back to the Bus, since the particle accelerator lab is much closer to the airfield than Hutchins’ house. They’re already hard at work in the lab when May parks the SUV in the cargo bay, but they do come to the door to watch as Grant carries Hutchins up the stairs. Skye stays with them, presumably intending to vent her frustrations about May’s actions—she spent the whole drive back glaring at the back of May’s head.

Speaking of May, she opens the door to the Cage for him, then departs, informing them that wheels will be up in three. Grant waits, still holding Hutchins, as Coulson unfolds the bed from the wall. He goes to set Hutchins down, but Coulson stops him.

“We’re just gonna keep the mattress,” Coulson says, pulling it off of the bed and setting it on the floor, against the wall. Then he folds the bed back up into the wall and steps back so Grant can put Hutchins down.

It’s a reasonable precaution, Grant acknowledges as he follows Coulson out of the Cage, but it’s out of character for Coulson, who usually takes it very easy on the people they encounter over the course of their investigations. Compared to the way he approached the Amador situation, even before they knew she was being controlled…it’s a little concerning.

Hell, compared to the way they treated Skye, who they caught literally in the act of leaking classified SHIELD intel, it’s downright worrying. Coulson’s obviously rattled by the whole situation, but why?

In the briefing room, Coulson immediately pulls up the feed from the Cage, and Grant leans against the table. He needs to ask about this, if only to get some idea of where Coulson’s mind is. Because right now, he has no idea.

“Just a mattress, sir?” he asks casually. “It’s a six hour long ride to the Fridge.”

“Fitz added magnetic shielding to the Cage after Simmons had her scare,” Coulson says, and Grant barely holds back a flinch at the reference. “If Ms. Hutchins has this power, then that room should keep it from getting out. But in there, she’ll be just as dangerous.”

Grant looks away as May enters the room, thinking furiously. It’s not like Coulson to make such a casual reference to Jemma’s near death, at least not to Grant’s face, and it was totally unnecessary in the context of the conversation. He could just as easily have said the Cage was shielded, without bringing Jemma into it, so what does it mean that he did?

“How is she?” May asks, pulling Grant out of his thoughts.

“The dendrotoxin’s wearing off,” Coulson says. “She’ll be awake soon. Scared, in a strange room. Our next interaction with her is crucial to gaining her trust, which is why I want you there.”

May looks uncharacteristically uncertain. Considering what happened the last time she was involved in an Index Asset Evaluation and Intake, Grant can hardly blame her. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“If Ms. Hutchins is gonna believe anything we say, she needs to know we’re not hiding things from her,” Coulson says. “Which means _you_ , explaining the situation.”

There’s a very obvious flaw in that plan, and Grant can’t help pointing it out. “What if that doesn’t calm her down? What if that makes her more agitated?”

“Then he definitely wants me in there,” May answers, eyes locked on Coulson.

“Pretty much,” Coulson agrees.

That seems out of character for Coulson, too. Everyone knows how badly May was rattled by the events in Bahrain—she transferred to _Administration_ , for the love of god—and casually making her responsible for Hutchins seems strangely cruel, coming from one of her oldest friends.

But asking outright will do no good, so all Grant says is, “I’ll observe from out here.”

Coulson makes a crack about losing his tie, then leaves the briefing room. May takes a deep breath and follows before Grant can say anything—not that he has any idea what he could say.

There’s something going on here, that much is obvious. The question is, what? And does it have anything to do with the fact that Coulson spent the last week locked in his office while the rest of them were on vacation? Or is Coulson just being practical? After all, in the last three weeks he’s nearly lost Jemma, Fitz, and Grant, at one point or another. It’s _possible_ that Coulson’s just being cautious, finally putting the safety of his team first.

But it doesn’t seem likely.

The interview goes about as well as can be expected. Hutchins is obviously terrified out of her mind, and she blames herself for the accident. She claims that she wasn’t angry at the people who were there on her lawn, yelling at her, because it’s her fault that those four men are dead.

It takes a while, but Coulson eventually gets her out of her spiral of guilt long enough to get some information on the accident. She says that she had gotten reports about one of the coupling assemblies coming loose. Apparently, they replaced the part and made sure it wasn’t damaged, and she wasn’t able to find a problem. Obviously, she missed something, and it’s easy to see why she blames herself.

Of course, it’s less easy to see _how_ she blames herself. Coulson manages to get out of her that she thinks she’s being punished by God for letting those four men dies, and He’s not protecting her. From _demons_. She honestly, truly believes that demons are causing all of the strange occurrences they’ve been attributing to possible telekinesis.

Coulson ends the interview pretty quickly after _that_ revelation.

\---

A few hours later, the team gathers in the briefing room to discuss the situation. After informing them that she and Fitz have yet to finish analyzing the accident, Jemma reports that all of the readings she’s getting from Hutchins are normal—no sign of irregular brain activity, just the type of elevated heart rate and blood pressure one would expect from a woman who’s locked in a cell. Skye’s still in the process of her own research, and she makes a request to be allowed to speak to Hutchins. A request which is quickly denied.

Then, talk turns to Hutchins’ claims of being tormented by demons. The general opinion is that Hutchins is delusional, broken by her own guilt, and Grant is glad to see that no one’s considering demons as a viable explanation. It seems obvious to dismiss it, but with this team, he really never knows what to expect.

Luckily, this time the team has taken the reasonable, logical approach of assuming that demons are _not_ behind the strange things that have been happening, and after instructing Jemma, Fitz, and Skye to pour over the accident, Coulson dismisses the briefing and leaves the room.

Skye chases after him, presumably to argue her case about speaking to Hutchins. For some reason, she’s really latched on to the woman.

There’s really not a lot for Grant to do, and he’s starving, so he decides to make himself dinner. He’ll eat, and then he’ll drag Jemma and Fitz out of the lab and make them eat, too. He’s pretty sure they never had lunch.

He amuses himself, as he gathers the makings of a BLT, with imagining exactly what kind of reaction the other specialists of his acquaintance would have to the information that these days, his job consists equally of shooting people and making sure his soulmate and her best friend don’t starve to death. He figures most of them wouldn’t believe it, especially since the soulmate and her best friend in question happen to be two of SHIELD’s most famous scientists.

He puts some bacon in the microwave and is just taking out a cutting board to slice the tomato on when Skye appears from the direction of Coulson’s office, muttering angrily about being denied permission to speak to Hutchins. She’s also still angry at May for shooting Hutchins in the first place.

“It was the right call,” Grant says mildly. “We needed to get out of there quickly, before the situation could escalate any further.”

“But was shooting Hannah the _only_ way to do that?” Skye demands, hopping up to sit on the counter. “May didn’t even give Coulson a _chance_ to calm Hannah down!”

“That crowd was ready to tear her apart,” he reminds her. “And the car trying to run them over didn’t help. Agent May made a judgment call.”

“I just don’t understand her at all,” Skye complains. “Everything to her is just _target acquired_ , _threat eliminated_.”

Her robot voice brings to mind her habit of comparing him to a robot, and her frequent cracks about him not being human. Funny how her opinion on him has turned around so suddenly.

The microwave beeps, so Grant takes his tomato slices back over to the other counter. “Well, she’s a specialist.”

“In one thing,” Skye protests, which…isn’t true. He makes a mental note to spend more time going over the different classifications of agents with her, as apparently she has some misunderstandings on the topic of specialist work. “You can…catch a lot more flies with honey than with napalm. Just saying.”

“Hand me the lettuce,” Grant orders, holding out his hand for it.

“And she says I need to stay away,” Skye says, hopping off the counter to hand him the lettuce. “But you know what I think? I think…she needs to get laid. Does she have a soulmate? Does she even have a _soul_?”

Grant sighs. He thinks knowing the truth about May and her soulmate might make Skye a little more sympathetic, but he knows May wouldn’t thank him for sharing the information. Instead, he decides to caution Skye. As her SO, it’s his job to make sure she doesn’t do stupid things that will get her killed—and mouthing off like this certainly qualifies.

“Might wanna be less confrontational with Agent May,” he advises. He knows Skye’s just blowing off steam, but still, she needs to take it down about five notches.

“I’m not scared of her,” Skye says at once. “Well, I am, but just because the _Cavalry_ shot a hundred guys on horseback doesn’t mean she knows how people _work_.”

What?

He puts down the lettuce and turns to face Skye. “Wait, _horseback_? Where’d you hear that?”

“FitzSimmons,” she says.

Grant pauses. He knows Jemma, for one, would never believe a story that ridiculous—seriously, horseback?—without proof, so there’s no way she actually thinks it’s true. Which means…she was messing with Skye. It’s kind of an amateurish attempt, telling a story like that to one of the most talkative people on the team, someone who was sure to repeat the story quickly, but still. Jemma actually pranked Skye. And she was apparently convincing enough that Skye didn’t question her account at all.

He’s so proud.

“They were messing with you,” he tells Skye. She looks away, obviously embarrassed, and he can’t hide his amusement when he continues. “Story gets bigger every year. It wasn’t a hundred guys, it was twenty. Trained assassins. May crossed ‘em off with…one pistol. No support.”

It’s a lie, of course, since he’s not supposed to know the truth, but it’s a convincing one. This is the version he heard at the Academy, and it fits well enough with the very, very brief comments May made last week, when she was telling him about her own struggle with rage.

Besides, it amuses him, a little, to be tricking Skye the same way Jemma already has once today.

“She rescued a bunch of agents?” Skye asks.

“Mmhmm,” he says, turning back to his sandwich. “And there definitely wasn’t a _horse_.” Seriously, how did she buy that? Especially from a liar as horrible as Jemma?

“Well if it went so well, why is she so squirrely about the name?”

“May’s not in it for the glory,” he says. “She got the job done, end of story.”

And she was completely _traumatized_ , but. Details. He looks around for the knife he used to slice the tomato. He could’ve sworn he left it on the counter next to him, but it’s nowhere to be seen.

“Now what’d I do with that knife?” he asks.

“Losing your mind in your old age?” Skye taunts cheerfully. “I hear the memory’s the first thing to go.”

He rolls his eyes. Sometimes it’s really hard to keep up with her moods. “Don’t you have research to be doing?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, pushing away from the counter. “I’ll get off your lawn, gramps.”

“Kids today have no respect,” he calls after her.

He looks for the knife for a few minutes, but eventually gives up on finding it for the moment. He’s starving. He’ll look again once he’s eaten.

\---

He’s just finishing his sandwich when Skye calls him over. She’s actually found something. Apparently, one of the technicians who died in the explosion, a man named Tobias Ford, filed three safety complaints in Hutchins’ department in the last month. Seems like he had it out for Hutchins, but unfortunately, he was right.

He tells Skye to keep looking and goes back to the kitchen, intending to do a more thorough search for the knife. It’s really not safe to leave sharp objects lying around a plane; you never know when you’re going to hit an inconvenient patch of turbulence.

He’s just starting to get really frustrated—seriously, the kitchen is _not that big_ , where the hell could he have put that knife?—when the power abruptly goes out. He has half a second to realize exactly what that means, then stumbles against the counter as the plane begins to lose altitude.

“What the hell?” Skye shouts.

He ignores her, running for the cockpit, and nearly knocks May off her feet when he runs into her outside her bunk. He doesn’t bother to apologize, and she doesn’t wait for one, just steadies herself and continues on her way.

“Ward, you certified?” she demands as they enter the cockpit.

He takes the copilot seat, letting that speak for itself, and they work on steadying the plane. The power’s gone entirely, generators included, and there’s no way to keep the Bus in the air, so they aim for a nearby field for emergency landing. Without power, vertical landing’s out of the question, which means it’s a bumpy ride.

He concentrates on keeping the plane as steady as possible, follows May’s directions, and tries very, very hard not to think of Jemma, whose nightmares of falling from the plane have only just begun to lessen. He allows himself a moment to hope that she’s securely strapped in, then pushes it away—along with the rage that’s trying to build, the voice shouting in his head that these things don’t just happen, someone’s _sabotaged_ the plane, was it that woman, if Hutchins has put them all in danger…

He shuts it down (the exact opposite of what May’s been teaching him, but he doesn’t have time for deep breathing right now) and focuses on getting the Bus on the ground.

It’s a very rough landing, but they make it okay, and after waiting a moment to make sure that the plane is completely settled, they leave the cockpit.

They meet Coulson and Jemma in the briefing room, and Grant makes no attempt at professionalism, rushing to Jemma’s side and taking her by the shoulders.

“Are you all right?” he asks, looking at her closely. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but she might be a bit pale.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she assures him distractedly, and he lets go of her shoulders. “Agent Coulson and I had enough time to get to the jump seats in the cargo bay. But I saw a ghost!”

 _What_?

“Well, not a ghost, precisely,” she corrects herself at once. “I know how that sounds, but—a man attacked me, and then he disappeared.”

“Attacked—?” he begins, incensed, and she pats his arm comfortingly.

“I’m fine,” she interrupts. “He tried to hit me with a wrench, but he missed. Not even a scratch, I promise. But he must’ve brought the plane down, somehow.”

“Did you get a good look at him?” May asks.

Jemma gives her a withering look. “He _dematerialized_!”

Grant takes a deep breath, blocking out the ensuing conversation in favor of trying to rein in his temper. He can’t draw on Jemma for calm, not in this. Looking at her can only make him angrier at the moment—she’s so clearly rattled, as evidenced by her initial, uncharacteristic claim of seeing a ghost. Add that to her snapping at May and the way she’s still holding on to his arm, her nails digging in to his sleeve, it’s obvious she’s upset.

And he _really_ doesn’t like it when Jemma’s upset.

Of course, on top of that, the fact that this intruder, whoever the hell he is, actually tried to _attack_ Jemma? He’s struggling for calm, and every time he looks at Jemma it gets that much harder. Still, eventually he manages to push the rage down enough to focus on the conversation, just in time to get his orders.

“Ward,” Coulson says. “Take your firearm. Escort FitzSimmons downstairs, assess the damage, get us up and running—”

“Wait,” Jemma interrupts. “Guys, um. Where’s Fitz?”

A quick look around proves that no, Fitz is not present, and Jemma is beginning to look a little panicked.

“We’ll find him,” he promises. “When did you last see him?”

“He went back into the storage area for magnetic couplings,” she says. “You don’t suppose…?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he says, although that’s not good. The storage area is what they call the network of halls behind the lab, which contains a variety of storage closets, med pods, and various internal workings of the plane—including the avionics bays, which are likely to be the source of the problem. If this ‘ghost’ came across Fitz down there…

Still, Jemma looks reassured, so he must sound convincing enough. Coulson hands out walkie-talkies, since the inner-ear comms they usually use are relayed through the plane, and therefore currently useless, and then they go their separate ways.

He stops by his bunk to grab his sidearm, and Jemma finally lets go of him. On the one hand, that’s good—he needs full range of motion, and he doesn’t have that with Jemma holding on to his arm like that. On the other hand, apparently Jemma’s touch was helping more than he thought it was, and his rage surges again when he loses that contact.

“Stay close,” he warns, pushing it down, and they make for the cargo bay.

They cross the lab, heading for the door back to the storage area, and he stops in his tracks at the sight of the holotable, which is completely shattered. It looks like something very heavy hit the surface with a hell of a lot of a force, and he has a terrible suspicion that he knows what happened.

“Like I said,” Jemma says quietly. “He missed.”

He grits his teeth, trying not to picture what being struck with that kind of force could have done to Jemma. “Are you hurt?”

It comes out a lot sharper than he intends, and he takes a deep breath, focusing on acknowledging and letting go of the rage, the way May’s been teaching him (since pushing it down is clearly failing). It’s reasonable to be upset that Jemma’s life has been threatened twice in the span of ten minutes, but it’s not reasonable to take that out on her. He can use the rage against this ghost, whoever he is, and until then he can’t give it any power.

It takes a few seconds of struggle, but he manages to regain his hold on his temper. He gives Jemma an apologetic look, and she shakes her head, dismissing it. She’s been very patient with him this past week, mostly tolerating his occasional flashes of temper. She’s only once snapped back at him, and he certainly deserved it. He’s probably deserved it more than the once, actually, but that time he definitely did.

“I’m fine,” she tells him. “I got out of the way in time, and he disappeared after he hit the holotable.”

“Right,” he says. He gives the holotable once last glance, then shakes it off. “Okay. Stay behind me.”

Jemma nods in wordless agreement, and he leads the way into the storage area, keeping his gun and his flashlight up.

They’ve only been walking for a few minutes when they hear approaching footsteps, and he motions her back a little further. He carefully clicks the safety off of his gun—he’ll need to shoot fast, before the ‘ghost’ can disappear again—but leaves his finger off the trigger.

It’s a good thing he does, because the footsteps belong to Fitz—armed with what Grant’s pretty sure is the knife he lost in the kitchen earlier—and he lowers his gun and clicks the safety back on as Jemma demands to know where Fitz has been. The answer, apparently, is ‘locked in a closet’, and Grant radios in to report they’ve found him while Jemma disabuses Fitz of the notion that they were the ones who locked him in.

“Good, we’ll need him,” May says. “Looks like the main problem is in Avionics Bay Two, but he took out all our systems.”

“Who’s she talking about?” Fitz asks, and Grant shushes him.

“Grab your equipment and get in there,” May orders. “I’m going to power down flight controls to conserve energy, and then go defend the Cage door…in case this _ghost_ comes knocking.”

“Did she just say ghost?” Fitz asks dubiously.

Jemma gets him up to speed as they make their way towards avionics. Grant learns, listening to the explanation, that Jemma had time to find something from data on the explosion at the particle accelerator lab.

“It was like a window into…somewhere else,” she’s telling Fitz as they round the second-to-last corner before avionics. “He thinks it’s Hell, but I think it’s an alien world. Fitz, it was stunning.”

“Well, there were reports in London after the spaceship landed of multiple portals opening,” Fitz muses. “Thor, passing between worlds.”

Grant shines his flashlight down a connecting hall, but there’s no sign of movement, so he keeps going. “You think that’s what they were researching at that lab?”

Reports were sketchy on the exact nature of the experiment, the owners of the lab—StatiCorp—refusing to share the information without a warrant. Grant knows Coulson was working on it this afternoon, but it seems pretty pointless now.

“Trying to create another portal, yes,” Jemma says brightly. She’s looking a lot more cheerful, now that Fitz has been found, and it’s helping him a bit in his efforts to restrain his anger. It’s still difficult, though, and Grant silently promises to dedicate himself to May’s lessons. He can’t afford to be distracted from the need to be on guard for this ghost by his anger that the man made it on to the plane in the first place.

“Failing,” Fitz realizes. “Until a malfunction produced a burst of energy.”

“This _ghost_ is a man trapped between our universe and another,” Jemma says. “Perhaps that’s how all ghosts are! It’s a simple explanation, really.”

“Simple would be a relative term, in this case,” he comments, but he’s glad to hear her returning to her scientific approach. It was worrying, earlier, that her first mention of the man included the word ‘ghost’—normally something she would scoff at.

They’ve reached Avionics Bay Two, and he pauses outside of the door, motioning Jemma and Fitz back a bit. He pulls the door open and moves to block the doorway, gun at the ready, but upon inspection it’s completely empty.

He moves back so that Jemma and Fitz can get a good look at the power box, the wires of which have been completely torn out. He has a feeling this isn’t going to be a quick fix, and in the meantime, they’re dealing with a disappearing man who has already tried to attack Jemma once. And locked Fitz in a closet.

Grant tries not to think too longingly of the hotel in LA.

“Well, he was thorough,” Jemma comments as Fitz swears.

There’s a clang of metal on metal from somewhere nearby, and Grant whirls around, gun at the ready, while Jemma and Fitz jump.

“Plane’s on uneven ground,” he tells them, but he keeps his eyes on the dark hallway, scanning for movement. “It could just be settling.”

“Or the other thing,” Fitz says, and Grant looks over his shoulder at him.

He hesitates briefly, torn between staying here to guard them and going to check on the source of the noise. He needs to take out this ‘ghost’ before he can do any more damage, but he really doesn’t want to leave Fitz and Jemma here alone.

He knows what he _should_ do. If Jemma weren’t his soulmate he’d already be gone. But it’s not easy.

He takes a deep breath and motions toward the open door. “Get to work. Yell if you need me.”

They nod, and he steels himself and walks away. He keeps his guard up as he checks the two closest hallways, but there’s no sign of any intruder, or anything on the ground that might have caused that noise, and after a moment he feels confident dismissing it as just the plane settling.

However, he’s no sooner called out to Jemma and Fitz that the hallway is clear than he hears them shouting, and he rushes back to their hallway. It’s empty; there’s no sign of the intruder, but he can hear Jemma and Fitz in the closet, yelling for help. Before he can move to let them out, though, something suddenly strikes his arm, knocking his gun out of his hand and pushing him into the wall. He turns and lunges for the man, but he disappears before Grant can reach him.

There’s another clang, further down the hallway, and Grant hisses for Jemma and Fitz to be quiet.

He hates to leave them there, but at least he knows where they are and that they’re safe for the moment. It’ll be easier to fight this ‘ghost’ if he doesn’t have to worry about watching Jemma and Fitz’s backs.

He heads down the hallway, keeping his guard up, but whether or not the intruder caused the initial noise, the plane _is_ obviously settling, and the constant creaking makes it difficult to listen for footsteps. If there would even _be_ any from a man who keeps disappearing.

He comes to a hallway intersection and turns around. He’s about to go back for his gun—why the hell didn’t he pick it up? Rookie move—when something hits him, hard, and he spins around to find himself faced with a man that must be the ghost. He looks strangely familiar, but he doesn’t have time to puzzle it out as the ghost swings what he thinks is a wrench at him.

He struggles against the ghost briefly, gaining and losing and regaining the upper hand, but before he can knock him out, the ghost disappears.

That’s _really_ starting to piss him off.

Before he can do more than look around in frustration, though, he hears Jemma scream. He runs for the closet, heart in his throat and rage burning once again in his veins. He barely remembers to grab his gun on the way past, and throws open the door ready to shoot the ghost at _least_ twelve times.

There’s no sign of the ghost in the closet, though. He registers that Jemma looks unharmed, and then there’s a sharp pain on the back of his skull and everything goes black.

\---

The first thing he notices is that his head is killing him. The next thing he registers is the touch of soft hands—one on his face, one on his shoulder. After a moment he realizes they’re Jemma’s hands, and manages to extrapolate from that that the lap his head is resting in is probably hers.

“There he is,” Jemma says quietly, plainly relieved, and he forces his eyes open.

“What happened?” he asks, still a little dazed. He’s finding it very difficult to think and that, combined with the way his head is throbbing, makes it obvious that he’s sustained some kind of head injury.

“Well, we lost communication,” Jemma says, helping him sit up. “And you were hit with a very large plumber’s wrench.”

That brings it all rushing back.

“A wrench?” he asks, twisting a little to look at her, which, _ouch_.

“Yeah.”

“That guy’s traveling forth between alien worlds,” he says. “With a _wrench_?”

“Must have been in his hand when the blast hit,” suggests Fitz, who’s hovering over him, looking worried.

Now, there’s a thought. Hutchins said that they checked and rechecked that coupling, but couldn’t find anything wrong. Yet, something obviously _was_ wrong, since the particle accelerator exploded. So…

“Not the kind of wrench you would use to loosen a coupling, is it?” he asks.

Fitz looks at Jemma, eyes wide, but before either one of them can say anything, there’s a burst of static from the walkie-talkie on the ground.

“You there?” Coulson asks. Fitz quickly grabs the walkie-talkie and hands it to Grant. “Maybe it doesn’t work after all.”

“Uh, yes, yes, we’re here, sir,” Grant says. He remembers what Jemma said about losing communication and asks, “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” Coulson says. “We were attacked, locked in. Then the guy disappeared.”

“Hey, that’s our story,” Fitz says.

“Is May with you guys?” Skye asks.

“She isn’t with you?” Jemma asks, leaning down to speak into the walkie-talkie.

There’s a long moment of silence, which Grant takes as a no.

“Our _ghost_ smashed our walkie-talkie,” Coulson finally says. “When was the last you heard from her?”

“About twenty minutes ago, when we updated her on the situation,” Jemma answers.

“We missed the update,” Skye says. “So…update again, please.”

“Our ghost is passing between worlds, and less of him is coming back every time,” Jemma explains. “If we wait him out, he may cease returning at all.”

“And was that all you told May?” Coulson presses.

Jemma and Fitz exchange a look, then his eyes go wide.

“She asked us why he was after us,” he says. “We told her it was because he can’t get to Hannah. You don’t think she—?”

“Took Hannah out of the Cage and off the Bus to draw the ghost out?” Coulson finishes. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“She’s using Hannah as bait,” Skye realizes. She doesn’t sound happy about it, but she also doesn’t sound as angry as Grant would have expected, considering her attitude earlier. “Well that’s just…awesome.”

“Well there’s not much we can do about it,” Fitz points out. “We’re all locked in.”

“Yeah,” Coulson says. “Good point.”

They fall into silence, and Grant suddenly remembers the events just before he was knocked out. He turns to look at Jemma, which luckily hurts a little less this time.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “I heard you scream.”

He looks her over, but to his relief there’s no sign of injury.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she says. “He just scared me, that’s all.”

“Good,” he says. He’s not crazy about her being scared, obviously, but it’s better than being hurt.

Actually, he would have expected himself to be furious right now, just from knowing she was frightened, but he’s weirdly calm. It’s hard to work up any rage when his head is in agony, he guesses.

Too bad head injuries aren’t a workable long-term solution to the whole berserker staff thing, because it’s very helpful not to have to struggle with his rage while he’s trying to think of a way to get out of this situation.

What does he know? They’ve got a ghost who wants to kill a woman they’ve taken into custody. He hasn’t actually hurt any of them, aside from knocking Grant out, but he’s shown that he’s not too fussed about causing damage. He brought down the plane, smashed the holotable, and cut off their means of communication—wait.

“Sir,” he says, activating the walkie-talkie. “I thought you said he smashed your walkie-talkie.”

“He did,” Coulson says.

“Then…how are you talking to us?” he asks.

“Walkie-talkie wristwatch,” Coulson says, a little proudly. “They only made twenty, I think.”

Right. He keeps forgetting that Coulson’s a pack-rat.

“Wait,” Fitz says. “We can use that.”

“We can?” Skye asks. “How?”

Fitz’s plan is to overload the walkie-talkie wristwatch and use it as a trigger for a small explosion, which can be caused by another of Coulson’s useless pieces of junk. Well, not so useless today, obviously, but whatever. Coulson hesitates over it, but eventually his duty wins out over his sentimentalism, and he follows Fitz’s instructions in setting up the explosive using the walkie-talkie wristwatch and an exploding pen.

The plan works perfectly, and less than five minutes later, Coulson unlocks the door and lets them out of the room.

“Did you notice what our ghost was carrying?” Fitz asks as Jemma helps Grant up. He’s feeling a little steadier, but his head is still killing him, and his vision swims for a moment.

“A wrench,” Skye says.

“A plumber’s wrench,” Jemma corrects. She gives him a worried look, and he tries to smile reassuringly, pulling away from her a bit to show that he doesn’t need her help walking. “The kind that can be used to loosen couplings, for instance.”

“That fits,” Skye says, exchanging a look with Coulson. “Actually, it explains a lot.”

“So we believe that this man is responsible for the blast?” Fitz checks, as they begin navigating their way out of the storage area.

“Skye says she thinks he’s the worker who filed all the reports,” Coulson says.

“Tobias Ford,” Skye supplies. “It looks like him.”

Grant _knew_ the guy looked familiar. He can’t believe he didn’t recognize him—Skye showed him that picture literally minutes before the Bus went down. Although, to be fair, he _was_ trying to keep Ford from knocking his head off with a plumber’s wrench.

“It makes no sense for a man to complain about safety issues whilst causing them,” Jemma points out. “Another theory is—”

“Theories don’t matter, only facts,” Grant interrupts, then winces. Okay, apparently the anger isn’t as gone as he thought it was. Still, they don’t have time to debate Ford’s motivations. He tries to make his voice gentler when he continues, “And the fact is, a bullet will take you out of whatever world you’re in.”

Jemma turns to give him a look, and he shrugs apologetically. She rolls her eyes and turns away again, and he sighs. He is really, truly itching to put a bullet or two in Ford. He tries to shake that off as he realizes they really have no idea where they’re going.

“Any idea which direction May could’ve taken her?” he asks.

“We’ll deploy the golden retrievers,” Jemma says, moving to open the storage closet they’re just passing. “They’re in here.”

She opens the door, and something falls out of the closet. Grant instantly dismisses it as not a threat—it’s just a balloon tied to a mop—but the rest of the team jumps, obviously startled. Fitz even screams.

“Fitz!” Jemma shouts. “This is no time for childish nonsense like this!”

“Pranking was your idea,” Fitz defends. “And, obviously, I rigged this little beauty _before_ I knew there was a dimension-jumping psychopath in the mix.”

“Wait, childish,” Skye says. “This guy is _childish_.”

They wait expectantly, but Skye doesn’t continue.

“What are you getting at?” Coulson asks.

They _really_ don’t have time for this.

“Jemma,” Grant says, nudging her. “The golden retrievers?”

“Yes, right,” she says. She goes into the closet and pulls a black case from one of the shelves. “Here they are.”

“I’ll take that,” Fitz says. He looks at Coulson. “We need to deploy them outside.”

“Let’s go,” Coulson orders.

As head towards the cargo bay, Jemma asks, “What were you saying, Skye?”

Skye explains that she thinks Ford filed all of those complaints because he wanted Hutchins’ attention, because he had a _crush_ on her. It does fit, actually—all of the unusual events that made them consider the possibility of telekinesis were in response to threats against Hutchins: she was being harassed at the gas station and the cop car went after them when they tried to take her in. It even fits the way he hasn’t really harmed the team—aside from Grant, but to be fair, he could have done a lot worse that knock Grant out.

He’s not trying to hurt anyone, he’s just trying to protect Hutchins.

Coulson lowers the cargo bay ramp, and Fitz kneels at the bottom of it to deploy his ‘golden retrievers’—little flying robots that can track people down. They scatter in all directions, and it’s not long before Fitz’s tablet beeps.

“Got ‘em,” he says. “They’re in a barn, half a mile to the southwest.”

“Great,” Coulson says. “Can we use that tablet to find them?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Coulson says, taking the tablet. “Ward, Skye, you’re with me. We’ll go after May and Hutchins. FitzSimmons, work on getting the power back online.”

“Right,” Jemma says.

“On it,” Fitz agrees.

Grant hesitates for a moment, but there’s no reason to think they’ll be in danger. After all, Ford wants Hutchins, and Hutchins is in the barn. There’s nothing on the Bus to attract his attention, or they would’ve seen him by now.

“Be careful,” he says to Jemma, and she nods.

“You, too.”

Progress to the barn isn’t as fast as Grant would like; they’re pretty much surrounded by forest, and they keep having to alter their path to avoid trees. Still, they get there soon enough, and Grant takes point, entering the barn with his gun drawn.

It turns out to be unnecessary, though. Ford is on his knees in front of Hutchins and May, making no move to attack either one of them, and May is speaking to him softly, telling him to let Hutchins go. He takes Hutchins’ hand and holds it while May speaks, and for a minute Grant thinks they’re going to have to kill him after all, but finally he closes his eyes and disappears.

Skye runs forward to hug Hutchins, and Grant does a quick sweep of the barn, just to be sure that Ford is really gone. There’s no sign of him anywhere, and considering the scene they walked in on, Grant’s pretty confident in assuming that they’ve seen the last of the guy.

He’s not wearing a holster, so he tucks his sidearm into the waistband of his jeans, then turns to face the rest of the team. May is leaving the barn, apparently done with the whole situation, and Skye prods Hutchins into following her.

“We done here?” Coulson asks him.

“Looks like,” Grant says. He gives Coulson a sideways look, seeing that he’s empty-handed. “What did you do with Fitz’s tablet?”

“Dropped it out there,” Coulson answers, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door.

Grant starts walking. “When you say dropped…?”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Coulson says dismissively. “It’s field equipment, it’s meant to last.”

Not when it’s dropped face down onto a rock, it’s not, and they find the tablet with the screen badly cracked. Coulson examines it for a moment, then shrugs.

“Oh, well. He’s got plenty of tablets.”

Grant raises an eyebrow at Coulson as they follow the others back towards the field where the Bus is parked.

“That wouldn’t happen to be payback for your pen and your watch, would it, sir?”

“No idea what you’re talking about, Ward,” Coulson says innocently. “No idea at all.”

It’s the least convincing display he’s seen since the last time Jemma tried to lie to him, but he lets it go. Fitz’s reaction is going to be hilarious, and after the day he’s had, Grant could use a laugh. Most of his rage has subsided for the moment, snapping aside, but he’s still a little angry that he didn’t get to shoot Ford. He might not have been after Hutchins to kill her, but Ford still caused them a lot of problems—including pulling their plane right out of the sky. Grant wishes he’d gotten the opportunity to at least _maim_ the guy.

They make it back to the Bus to find that the power’s still out. Jemma and Fitz are nowhere in sight, presumably working on the problem, and Coulson leaves the broken tablet on one of the lab tables and heads upstairs. Grant hits the button to raise the cargo ramp—no sense inviting anyone _else_ to wander onto the plane, after all—and then makes his way back to avionics. He’s not really comfortable leaving Fitz and Jemma alone down here, after everything that’s happened today.

He hears them before he reaches them. They’re maintaining a constant stream of dialogue about possible scientific explanations for other supernatural phenomena, debating the likelihood that all (or even most) ghosts are just people caught between dimensions, and discussing the repair work they’re doing, all at once. He shakes his head; it’s honestly impressive, the way the two of them can _talk_ so much.

Still, it’s something he finds calming. It brings to mind the hours he’s spent in the lab, sitting in a corner and reading a book while Jemma and Fitz go about their work. So he leans in the doorway and listens to their conversation, watching them repair the wiring that Ford literally pulled out of the wall, and lets himself be soothed.

By the time they finish it up, nearly fifteen minutes later, he’s confident that he’s gotten all of his anger under control. He won’t be snapping at anyone else tonight—at least, not as long as nothing else happens.

He wishes, for about the millionth time, that some other team got that mission in Norway. Grant’s got plenty of things to worry about without adding an inability to control his temper to the mix.

“That should do it,” Fitz says, pulling Grant out of his thoughts.

He pushes away from the door and leaves as silently as he came, heading upstairs. There’s no need for them to know he’s been hovering—Fitz tends to get a bit sensitive about that sometimes. He takes the ladder up, rather than going back out to the cargo bay to take the stairs, and the lights come on just as he reaches the top. Skye’s closing the door to her bunk, and he assumes that she’s letting Hutchins sleep in it, since they don’t exactly have a guest room.

Speaking of Hutchins, he wonders what Coulson’s planning to do with her. There’s no need to take her to the Fridge, since they know she’s not telekinetic, but it’s not like her community is likely to believe the truth about what really happened—they’d just think she’s trying to push the blame off on someone else. He makes an absent offer to help Hutchins if she needs it, then goes to search out May and see if she knows what the plan is.

She’s in the cockpit, of course, checking to make sure all of the flight controls are back online and fully functional. Since she’s busy, he gets straight to the point.

“What are we doing with Hutchins?”

“Taking her to stay with her mother,” May answers without looking away from her displays. “Coulson figures it’s the least we can do.”

Grant has to disagree with that—it’s not like it’s _their_ fault Hutchins was being stalked—but whatever. Everyone’s alive and safe and the Bus is back in working order. His job is done for the day.

He thinks about asking where exactly Hutchins’ mother lives, but May’s busy and he doesn’t want to bother her anymore. The case is closed and the mission’s over; he doesn’t really care where they’re going next, since there’s nothing he’ll have to do there. Instead he just leaves her be.

He drops his gun off in his bunk, then goes out to the lounge and has a seat on the couch. His head is still aching, badly enough that he’s considering taking something for it. ‘Something’ meaning Tylenol, of course. As nice as an industrial-strength painkiller would be, he really can’t risk the loss of control. Not just of his rage, but of his mouth.

He hasn’t had anything stronger than a local anesthetic since he signed up for SHIELD, for fear of letting his true loyalties out. It’s been inconvenient and often painful, but it’s better than letting anyone know he’s a HYDRA plant.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by Jemma taking a seat next to him, and he lifts his arm so she can cuddle against him, then wraps it around her shoulders. He wonders, not for the first time, just how badly she was affected by the Bus’ emergency landing.

He doesn’t bring it up, though. If he asks now she’ll probably just brush it off. Questions like that can wait until they go to bed.

“So,” he says instead. “A horse?”

Jemma freezes. “You…heard about that?”

“Yeah,” he says. He tries to sound stern, but he’s pretty sure his amusement leaks through. “Skye told me your little story.”

“It occurred to us, this afternoon, that Skye missed out on the Academy,” she explains. “And therefore missed out on the traditional freshman pranking.”

“And you decided to share that with her,” he says. “Out of the kindness of your hearts.”

“Exactly,” she agrees, pleased.

“I can’t believe she actually bought that,” he says, unable to keep from laughing. “A horse, really?”

She joins in on his laughter. “And I’m usually such a terrible liar!”

“A horse,” he says again. He really can’t get past that.

Once their laughter dies down, Jemma straightens and gives him a serious look.

“How’s your head?” she asks.

“Fine,” he says. “No permanent damage.”

“No?”

“No,” he promises. “Not even a concussion.”

“And I suppose you have plenty of experience with those,” Jemma grumbles, but she leans against him again, apparently willing to take his word for it.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he says. “I really do.”

“Well that’s what you get for being a specialist,” she says primly. “ _I’ve_ never been concussed.”

He thinks of pointing out that _he’s_ never been infected with an alien virus, but it’s a little soon to be joking about that.

“Not that it would matter,” he says instead. “You’ve got plenty of brain cells to spare.”

“Try to be more careful,” she teases. “You, after all, don’t.”

“Oh, don’t I?” he asks, leaning down to kiss her. Before he can, however, they’re interrupted.

“That is _not_ a professional conversation,” Skye announces as she drops into one of the recliners. “I’m telling.”

He sighs. “How old are you again?”

“Younger than you,” she says smugly. “Now stop snuggling, we’re playing Scrabble.”

“Are we?” he asks, looking pointedly at her empty hands.

“We are,” Coulson confirms, dropping the box onto the table.

Jemma sighs and pulls away from him, moving to the nearest recliner. They haven’t been allowed to play as a team since the Pictionary debacle, which is a shame, since Jemma kills at Scrabble. Still, one of these days he’s determined to beat her, so he leans forward and helps Coulson unpack the game.

Technically, the board they’re using is from a game called UpWords, which involves stacking letters on top of each other to form new words. They all agree, however, that they prefer Scrabble, so they just use the UpWords board and play with Scrabble rules and scoring. It would be easier to use an actual game of Scrabble, but the UpWords has the advantage of the pieces actually snapping into place on the board, which is useful when one is playing on a plane.

(Coulson seems to be back to normal, cracking his usual terrible jokes, and his decision to fly Hutchins to see her mother seems a lot more in character than his earlier behavior. It’s possible he was just having a bad day, but Grant still resolves to keep an eye on him for a while.)

Skye keeps a tablet close at hand in case of word challenges, and it gets a lot of use. Grant tries to argue against the English only rule, which gets enacted in the second round, but he gets outvoted, and he takes petty revenge by challenging every word he doesn’t recognize.

He takes it easier on Jemma, of course, but eventually she plays a word that he really can’t let go.

“That isn’t a word in our language,” he says, staring at the board. Aglet? No way.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Coulson agrees.

“I’m checking,” Skye says.

“Our language?” Jemma demands. “You mean the English language, first spoken in _England_?”

“Aglet,” Skye reads. “A plastic or metal tube covering the end of a shoelace.”

“Oh, come on,” Coulson says.

“She used her Britishness against us,” Grant complains as Skye laughs and Jemma sits back smugly. (He has always wondered what those things are called, though.)

They’re distracted from the topic of aglets when Fitz walks up. He’s got what looks like shaving cream all over his face, and Grant has no hope of holding back his laughter. Neither does anyone else, and Jemma laughs the loudest.

“It’s not funny,” Fitz says. They all stop laughing. “I was sleeping. Peacefully.”

That brings the laughter right back, and Fitz turns his head to glare at Jemma.

“Very clever, Simmons.”

She claims innocence, as does Grant. So do Coulson and Skye. None of them are particularly convincing, since they can barely stop laughing long enough to defend themselves from Fitz’s accusations, and eventually he storms off in a huff.

“Seriously, though,” Skye says when he’s gone. “Who was it?”

Grant takes a look around. No one’s looking guilty, or even smug.

“Well, it had to be one of us,” Skye continues. “It’s not like there are any other options.”

There’s a long moment of silence, as all of them seem to consider the missing member of their team. They exchange thoughtful looks.

“No,” Skye says. “No way.”

“Maybe it was Hannah,” Jemma suggests.

They all laugh, and the mystery is dismissed in favor of continuing the game.

\---

Jemma wins, of course, but Grant comes in a close second, so he’s happy. Once they’ve cleaned up the board, Coulson tells them that they’ll be dropping Hutchins off sometime around three a.m., Bus time, and if they don’t want to say goodbye, they’re welcome to go to sleep.

Grant, having formed no particular emotional attachment to their guest, is very much in favor of this plan. A glance at Jemma shows that she is, too. They wish Coulson and Skye goodnight, ignoring the pointed look they get from the latter, and twenty minutes later they’re climbing into Grant’s bed.

Jemma takes the side nearest the door, as usual, and he lifts her hand from his chest to kiss her timer.

“You okay?” he asks. “After…”

“After our emergency landing?” she supplies when he hesitates. “I’m fine. Really. I can’t say it wasn’t frightening, but an emergency landing is hardly the same thing as freefalling. It wasn’t fun, but I’m fine.”

She actually sounds it, too. “Good,” he says quietly. “I’m glad. And I’m sorry for…snapping.”

“That’s all right,” she says, curling a little closer to him. “I know you’re trying very hard to keep it under control, but it’s only been a week, and it was a stressful situation.”

“Our lives are nothing _but_ stressful situations,” he points out a little cynically, though the easy forgiveness does make him feel better.

Jemma rubs her hand across his chest. “This isn’t stressful.”

“No,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to her hair. “It’s not.” Then, because he’s pretty sure he hasn’t said it today, he adds, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she says, a little drowsily.

Her breathing soon evens out as she falls asleep, but he stays awake for a while, stroking her hair and staring at the ceiling. With Jemma so close, peacefully sleeping in his arms, he should be perfectly calm. The seething rage in his chest has dwindled nearly to nothing. There’s no danger left on the Bus. Jemma’s safe. Fitz is safe. Skye and May and Coulson are safe.

And yet, instead of peace, all he feels is a kind of creeping dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to sarahspoh for the idea that the team is only using the UpWords board because the pieces stay in place better. I seriously have no idea how that game even works, so thank you!


	10. The Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team is once again going up against Centipede, much to Grant's disgust. This time, though, they've got help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks for all of the comments and kudos. They mean a lot.
> 
> Second, I'm sorry this took so long! I got some really awful messages after the last thing I posted, and it kind of killed my motivation for a while. But it's back now, so let's not dwell!
> 
> Speaking of which, in case you didn't see it, I added a second chapter to "i've only got forever (and forever is fine)" which is the fic about the rest of the teams' soulmates. Chapter two contains May, Coulson, and Jemma's POVs, so check that out if you haven't already!
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

They’re just getting into bed on Monday night when Jemma points out that Christmas is only two weeks away. She sounds strangely nervous, and Grant pauses in the act of closing the door.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” he agrees, watching her carefully. When she takes a seat on the bed and starts fussing with the quilt, he can’t help but be concerned. “Do we…have something against Christmas?”

“No, of course not,” Jemma says. “I love Christmas! It’s just…”

He finishes closing the door and joins her on the bed. “It’s just?”

Jemma takes a deep breath, like she’s steeling herself, and then takes his hands. “If we can get time off—which, of course, I know is a very big if—would you…like to come home with me? Meet my parents?”

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but that definitely wasn’t it. Jemma’s been so cagey with her parents—refusing to tell them that she’s doing field work, afraid to mention that he’s a field agent, barely filling them in on what she’s been up to—and this is a very sudden turn around.

To say nothing of the fact that he’s never done the meet-the-parents thing before and has no idea how to handle it. On the one hand, it won’t change much if Jemma’s parents don’t like him—what can they do, tell her to get a new soulmate? But on the other, he knows she’ll be devastated if they don’t get along.

Even if he knew nothing about Jemma, he’d be able to tell from the way she’s clutching his hands that this is important to her.

“Of course,” he says. “I’d be happy to meet your family. But I thought…”

“I think it’s time I told them the truth about our work,” Jemma says, apparently following his train of thought. “It’s been months, now, and I can’t lie to them forever. I feel _terrible_ every time Mum asks me if I’ve made any brilliant discoveries lately.”

“You _have_ made brilliant discoveries lately,” he points out, and Jemma rolls her eyes. “So are you gonna tell them during your weekly phone call? Or are you gonna wait and do it in person?”

“I don’t know,” Jemma sighs. “I was going to tell them today, but I’m afraid I…chickened out, a bit. I can’t decide whether or not they would take it better in person.”

“Well, you’ve got a few weeks to decide,” he says reasonably.

Jemma makes a distracted noise, tapping her thumbs against his hands. “What do you think? Will telling them in person soften the blow?”

“I don’t know that anything will soften the blow of their only child putting herself in danger,” he says honestly. Jemma winces. “But…”

“But?” she asks, straightening.

“On a purely selfish note,” he says. “The visit might go more smoothly if they have a few weeks to get used to the idea.”

“Oh, there’s a thought,” Jemma says, tilting her head. “If I give them a few weeks to be angry about it, by the time we actually get there, they’ll have moved on to worrying about my safety. And then I can present you, my highly-trained specialist soulmate.”

“Pretty sure that’ll win me points,” he agrees.

“Unless they get angry at _you_ for letting me go into the field,” she points out brightly.

“Well, then the three of us can commiserate about our inability to talk you out of anything,” he counters. “It’ll be a great bonding activity.”

Jemma scrunches her nose. “Oh, no, but then you’ll get my mum started on the great Cambridge Debate. She still hasn’t forgiven me for not going to Oxford.”

“If she does that, I can cleverly steer the conversation to you as a kid,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to talk about all the trouble you got into as a little genius, and we’ll be safely away from the topic of field work.”

“Well, I see you’ve got this all under control already,” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“Interrogation evasion,” he says with a serious nod. “It’s one of my specialties.”

Jemma laughs, and he relaxes, glad to see the nervous expression finally fade.

“So you’re all right spending Christmas with my family?” she checks.

“I’d be happy to meet your family,” he says again. “But you really are going to need a lot of luck to convince Coulson to give us both time off.”

“I’ll think of something,” Jemma says, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I’m very clever, you know.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that,” he assures her. He stands, pulling her up after him, and tugs the quilt back. “Now, if we’re done with the heart-to-heart, it’s time to get some sleep. I’m sparring with Agent May first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, dear,” Jemma says, sliding in to bed after him. “I’ll get the ice packs ready.”

“For her,” he clarifies as she settles herself against him.

“No, definitely for you,” she says.

He’d argue but, well, it’s true. He’s probably going to be in a world of pain by the time he and May are done in the morning. Actually, that’s kind of the whole point. It’s part of the training she’s giving him in controlling the rage that’s still lingering, three weeks after he first touched the berserker staff. He’s doing pretty well keeping a hold on it when faced with insults and whining (helpfully provided by a very willing Skye); now it’s time to see how he’ll do when he’s getting his ass kicked.

Either way, tomorrow is _really_ going to hurt.

\---

May does indeed kick his ass, and it does indeed hurt. At one point he thinks he’s got the upper hand, but it turns out to be a feint, and May takes him down just as hard as she did the first seven times. He’s bruised and sweating and tomorrow he’ll have to call upon all of his training to make himself do anything other than lie in bed questioning his life choices, but on the bright side, he doesn’t once lose his temper.

She’s just helping him up to start round nine when Coulson appears on the catwalk to summon them to a briefing. Grant might have been grateful for the reprieve if not for the look on Coulson’s face, which warns him that something serious is going on, and he follows May up the stairs in concerned silence.

In the briefing room, Coulson plays a video of a man being broken out of prison, and Grant realizes what’s going on long before Coulson puts up a zoomed-in image to show the Centipede device one of the men is sporting.

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_.

He is really tired of being sent on missions against Garrett’s operation, and it looks like it’s about to happen again. Every time they encounter Centipede is one more chance that something slips, that he makes a mistake and shows his hand, and while he’s confident in his undercover abilities, he would really prefer not to risk it.

There’s an added dimension to it this time, though, because watching the video, Grant can’t _not_ be reminded of his own breakout from juvie. He knows for a fact that Garrett covered that whole incident up somehow—the Plymouth Juvenile Secure Unit has no record of any prisoners ever breaking out, he’s checked—and there must be a reason he didn’t do the same with this one.

Garrett _wants_ them to encounter Centipede this time, and Grant has no idea why. Not for the first time, he wishes he had a way to securely contact his SO, because he has some serious questions.

Jemma’s cheerful musings on Centipede’s apparent fix of their previously explosive serum pulls him out of his thoughts, and he forces himself to focus on the briefing.

“Who’d they break out?” May asks.

“Edison Po, former Marine,” Coulson says, pulling up the man’s file. “Expert in tactics and rapid response. Fell off the grid in ’08, reappeared eighteen months ago at a diner in Boston.”

“Where he stabbed a friend’s eyes out,” Grant reads off the file. Charming.

“With a steak knife,” Coulson supplies. “Then finished his meal.”

“That’s funny, Po doesn’t _look_ crazy,” Skye says, and everyone stares at her, disbelieving. “I’m _kidding_ ; the guy is a walking mug shot.”

Grant has to agree. Sometimes he really wonders where Garrett finds these people.

“Which means he shouldn’t be too hard to track down,” Coulson agrees. “Finding Po and these Centipede soldiers is a top priority for SHIELD. We’ll be running point, but we won’t be working alone.”

Something about that strikes Grant as strangely ominous. “What team did HQ send for back-up?”

“Not a team, a person,” Coulson answers. “Someone who can help us fight fire with fire.”

“Somebody we worked with before?” Skye asks.

“Not exactly,” Coulson hedges.

A person that they haven’t exactly worked with before, someone who can help them fight fire with fire…No. No way.

“Sir,” Grant says. “Tell me you don’t mean who I think you mean.”

“Well that would depend on who you think I mean,” Coulson says reasonably.

“Mike Peterson,” May says. “You’re talking about Mike Peterson.”

“Whoa, what?” Skye asks. “ _Mike_?”

“He’s been receiving training as a field agent,” Coulson tells them. “He’s fully cured of the mental effects of the Centipede serum but maintained the advanced strength. He’ll be an incredible asset on this mission.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Grant says. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Coulson considers this for a moment. “No. But we’re doing it anyway.”

Oh, well, as long as he’s _aware_ that this has the serious potential to blow up in their faces, everything’s fine, isn’t it?

“HQ wasn’t comfortable sending him to the Academy, so Peterson’s at a training facility nearby,” Coulson says. “I’m going to go pick him up. In the meantime, see what you can find on Po and the Centipede soldiers.”

Orders given, he leaves, and Grant sighs. As if going up against Centipede isn’t enough to worry about, now they’re adding in yet another variable—a variable with super-strength. It’s a good thing he’s spent so much of the last few weeks working on his control, because he has a feeling it’s going to be repeatedly tested on this mission.

He excuses himself as Jemma, Fitz, and Skye divvy up the soldiers to investigate. He’s not necessary for this, and he’s in desperate need of a shower and a change of clothes. And a few minutes to get past his first instinct, which is to grab Jemma and take her far, far away from Centipede and all of its various test subjects.

\---

By the time he returns to the briefing room, he’s feeling a bit better about the Centipede thing. He trusts Garrett—if his mentor has put Centipede in their path, it’s for a good reason. And none of the Centipede soldiers or scientists knows that Garrett is in charge of their operation. They certainly don’t know about Grant. As long as his undercover skills don’t fail him—and they won’t—he’s got nothing to worry about on that front.

About Peterson, he’s still got plenty of doubts. But he seems to be the only one. As they search for information on the one Centipede soldier they’ve been able to identify, the others present arguments in favor of working with Peterson. Jemma even, in what he considers to be a particularly low blow, brings up the fact that Skye’s beginning with them wasn’t so auspicious, either.

They have reasonable arguments, but he’s still not convinced.

“Just saying, this could easily go sideways,” Grant says. “I mean, the last time we saw this guy, he was a raging homicidal maniac—” he breaks off, sensing movement behind him which, combined with the awkward look on Jemma’s face… “He’s standing right behind me, isn’t he?”

Skye nods, looking uncomfortable.

“Mr. Peterson,” Coulson says cheerfully as Grant turns around. “This is Agent Grant Ward. He’s the man who shot you at Union Station.”

Which really does a _lot_ to help the awkward tension in the room. Not.

“FitzSimmons designed the weapon he used,” Coulson continues. Jemma and Fitz wave. “And I think you remember…”

“Kidnap victim,” Skye supplies, nodding.

Peterson looks surprised. “ _You_ joined SHIELD?”

Grant can’t blame him for the surprise, since by Skye’s own account she spent a good amount of time trying to convince Peterson of how much danger he was in from SHIELD. Funny how things change. Speaking of the last time they met, Peterson thanks them for the way they handled Union Station, well aware that another team might not have let him leave it alive. He and Skye briefly discuss his son, then Coulson asks about their progress.

They’ve got basically nothing on Po, but Skye’s been focusing on his life outside of prison, and Coulson suggests she take a look at his life inside.

They _do_ have something on the Centipede soldiers, though, and Grant pulls up what they were able to find.

“Name’s Brian Hayward,” he says as the man’s photo appears on the screen. “Stationed in Afghanistan for three years, then…fell off the radar when he got back.”

“Only living relative, sister Laura, sophomore at the University of Ohio,” Skye continues.

“She’s our best shot at finding Hayward,” Coulson decides, turning to face Grant. “You and I will go talk to her. Have May set a course for Cleveland.” He starts to leave, then pauses. “And Ward?”

“Sir?”

“Go put on a suit,” he orders. “Off-the-rack.” Then he leaves, Peterson right behind him.

“A suit?” Jemma asks. “Why does he want you to wear a suit?”

“AC likes suits,” Skye says. “Maybe he’s tired of being the only well-dressed man on the team. Tough luck, Ward.”

“I’m well-dressed,” Fitz mutters, straightening his tie. They ignore him.

Grant gives Skye’s weird one-shoulder sweater a pointed look. “If he’s instituting a dress code, I’m not the only one in trouble.”

“Hey, this is trendy,” she defends. “You’re just boring.”

He rolls his eyes and pushes away from the table. “The word you’re looking for is professional.”

For the sake of his own sanity, he pretends not to hear the joke Skye makes as he leaves.

“There’s nothing professional about the way his ass looks in those jeans.”

He does take some pleasure from Jemma’s laughing agreement, though.

\---

He’s in possession of a variety of suits, meant for a variety of covers. There are ill-fitting suits, off-the-rack suits, tailored suits, _designer_ tailored suits, and more. Most of them are down in storage 1B, with the rest of the team’s ‘undercover’ clothes, but he keeps two of his most commonly needed suits in the closet in his bunk—one tailored, one off-the-rack.

Coulson’s kind of a sartorial snob. If he wants Grant to wear an off-the-rack suit, it means he’s already got a cover in mind to use when dealing with Hayward’s sister. It’s a little annoying that he’s chosen not to immediately _share_ that cover, but it’s typical Coulson.

Maybe it’s something to do with the five years he spent alone in the wilds of Wyoming, but Grant really hates wearing suits. Unfortunately, his job calls for a lot of them. Hopefully dealing with Hayward’s sister won’t take long.

He feels the Bus start to descend just as he’s tying his tie, and slides the door to his bunk open to find Coulson waiting outside of it.

“Good,” Coulson says, looking him over. “That’ll work. Ready to go?”

“Yes, sir,” he says, and follows Coulson through the lounge and down the stairs into the cargo bay. Jemma and Fitz are in the lab with Peterson, and Jemma pauses to give him a cheerful little wave as he walks past.

Grant can’t help but hesitate. He’s really not comfortable leaving Jemma and Fitz alone with an outsider—especially an outsider who has super-strength.

“You sure Peterson’s stable, sir?” he asks, eyes following Jemma as she moves around the lab.

“Positive,” Coulson says. “Come on, we’re taking Lola.”

He catches movement above him and looks up to see May lingering on the catwalk. When he makes eye contact, she gives him a pointed nod, and he relaxes. She’ll keep an eye on Peterson. If he makes one wrong move, she’ll cross him off before anyone can say ‘super’.

Worry abated, he gets into Lola and buckles his seatbelt. Coulson’s smiling a little to himself, but doesn’t comment, simply reverses out of the cargo bay and into the parking lot.

“There’s a tablet in the glove compartment,” Coulson says as he pulls onto the street. “See if you can track down where Hayward’s sister will be—it’s a big campus, and we haven’t got all day.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant says, and does just that. The tablet’s pre-loaded with everything Skye was able to find on Hayward’s sister, for which he is extremely grateful. He only has _very_ basic hacking training, and he wasn’t looking forward to testing it out on a tablet.

A quick browse through the files nets him Hayward’s sister’s schedule, and he’s relieved to see that she should be in class at the moment. Finding her will be easy enough, as long as she hasn’t chosen today to play hooky. The name of the class gives him pause, though.

“The Psychology of Women,” he reads. “Unraveling the Female Psyche.”

Really? He doesn’t even know where to start with that one.

“That’s an actual book?” Coulson asks, surprised.

“It’s a whole course,” he corrects. “Hayward’s sister’s in there now.”

Coulson shakes his head and checks his watch. “We’ll be at the school in ten. Catch her on her way out.” He pauses, then shakes his head again. “A whole class. On women. Time was you just had to figure them out. Solving the puzzle was half the fun.”

That sounds like an invitation for questions. If Grant’s any judge, Coulson’s got something he wants to share.

“You solve a lot of puzzles?” he asks. “In your day?”

Coulson looks at him briefly. “A few…some more worth it than others. One was…especially rewarding.”

So that’s where this is going. “Your soulmate, sir?”

“Yep,” Coulson says.

Grant’s well aware of the story there, but he’s not technically supposed to be—and in any case, it’s obvious that Coulson wants to share it. So he asks, “What happened?”

“I died.”

“She wasn’t Level Seven, sir?” Grant asks.

“She was a cellist,” Coulson says wistfully. “Second chair, Portland Symphony. Saw her play whenever I was in town. You ever see a beautiful woman play the cello?”

Grant shakes his head.

“It’s something else,” Coulson says. “She laughed at my jokes, too, which was a very nice bonus.”

“You know where she is now?” Grant asks.

“Course I do,” Coulson says quietly.

It’s a stupid question, Grant admits. But he’s having a little trouble finding something to say. It’s obvious that Coulson’s been holding this in for a while, that he’s struggling with the situation, and Grant can’t blame him. He can’t imagine being forced to leave Jemma—or, well, he can, but he’d really rather not.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says finally.

“When I died, her timer went red,” Coulson says. “Bringing me back to life didn’t bring my timer back online, and, well. The Avengers thought I was dead. Had to keep that up. SHIELD protocol. So…she can’t know I’m alive. It’s probably better this way.”

Grant disagrees, and he thinks Coulson does, too. He hesitates for a moment, not sure what Coulson wants to hear.

He’s always gotten the feeling that Coulson is weirdly invested in his and Jemma’s relationship—not just insisting that they remain on the same team, which was strange enough, but keeping an eye on them when they’re together, and turning a blind eye to protocol violations…like the fact that Jemma hasn’t slept in her own bed in more than a month. He thinks maybe Coulson—a definite sentimentalist—is hoping that Grant and Jemma’s relationship goes well, since his ended in such unfortunate circumstances.  Maybe he’s living a little vicariously through them. Or maybe he’s a little bit of a masochist, forcing himself to watch the two of them be happy while he’s not.

“I have to thank you, sir,” he says finally.

Coulson gives him a questioning glance.

“You were right to keep Jemma and me both on the team,” he continues. “I thought it would be difficult to see her in danger, and it is. But I can’t imagine how much worse it would be to be separated. So thank you, sir.”

Coulson smiles, pleased. “You’re welcome. I could say I told you so…”

“I think you just did, sir.”

“Guess so,” Coulson says.

They’ve reached the University of Ohio, and Coulson parks at a curb near the building Hayward’s sister’s class is in. He pulls a card out of his pocket and hands it to Grant.

“Dan Filch,” Grant reads. “Ohio state gaming commission?”

“Yep,” Coulson says.

“Lottery ploy,” Grant realizes, tucking the card into his pocket. It’s an interesting choice—the lottery story’s a hard sell. Everyone wants money, but they’re pretty suspicious of anyone who wants to give it to them. “Hayward won the lottery and his ticket’s about to expire, but we can’t find him. His sister might.”

“Money talks,” Coulson agrees. “Good luck.”

Grant nods and looks at the tablet, memorizing Laura Hayward’s face. Then he gets out of the car and walks toward the building she should be coming out of any minute. He takes up a position next to a bulletin board, pretending interest in the notices about textbooks for sale and upcoming seminars, trying not to stick out too much—although wearing a suit on a college campus is enough for a few second looks all on its own.

It’s only been a few minutes when May and Skye contact them through the comms. He can’t respond, wary of drawing attention, and the topic of discussion makes him absurdly grateful for that.

He _really hates_ working against Garrett’s operation.

May and Skye have identified a woman who visited Po in prison as Raina. Apparently, she was the one who recruited Peterson for the Centipede project. There’s also a tenuous connection to the last time they encountered Centipede, when Centipede kidnapped a pyrokinetic in Hong Kong; Skye’s ex-boyfriend, Miles Lydon, was hired to crack a SHIELD feed (leading to the pyrokinetic in question’s kidnapping) by a woman in a flower dress, which is what Po’s visitor is wearing. As far as evidence goes, it’s purely circumstantial, but it’s a piece to the puzzle.

They’re marking Raina as Centipede’s main recruiter, and Po as Centipede’s newest recruit. Coulson theorizes that Centipede may want Po, who has background in tactical strategy, to coordinate all of their new soldiers.

Grant doesn’t know much about the day-to-day operations of Garrett’s little project. It’s all compartmentalized, partially for this very reason, so he has no idea whether or not the team is on the right track. He would have no trouble contributing to this part of the discussion. No, it’s the other part of it that makes him glad he can’t respond.

Lip-reading software has Po making reference to someone called ‘the Clairvoyant.’ Specifically, he says the Clairvoyant doesn’t like to be touched. Which makes it sound like Po has had personal contact with the Clairvoyant, and that makes Grant nervous.

‘The Clairvoyant’ is Garrett, explaining away knowledge gained through high-level security clearance by pretending to be psychic. Thus far, none of the Centipede employees they’ve encountered have been important enough to have actually met the Clairvoyant, or even known anything more than the name—as evidenced by the fact that this is the first time the team is hearing it. This means that until now, Grant hasn’t had to worry about anyone connecting him to Centipede, because none of the employees they’ve come across have known enough to do it, and he’s gained the team’s trust enough that it would never occur to them that he might be working against them.

But Po knowing that Garrett doesn’t like to be touched implies that there’s been an _opportunity_ to touch. It implies a face-to-face meeting. And if Po has met Garrett in person, has possibly learned Garrett’s actual identity, then Grant’s cover is at risk. Because if Garrett gets found out as the head of Centipede…well, it’s not a far jump from _Garrett is involved_ to _Garrett’s protégé is involved._

So he’s very, very grateful that he can’t contribute to the conversation, because it gives him time to get his sudden paranoia under control.

Coulson is just denying the possibility that the Clairvoyant is psychic when Grant spots Laura Hayward. He takes a moment to remind himself of his cover, puts on a smile, and approaches her.

“Laura Hayward?”

“That’s me,” she confirms, stopping.

“Sorry to bother you,” he says, slipping easily into a ‘harmless salesman’ persona. “But, I was hoping you could help me out.”

“I hope so, too,” she says, a little flirtily.

“I’m looking for your brother, Brian,” he tells her, and watches the smile fall off her face. “Have you seen him lately?”

“I’m—I’m sorry, who are you?” she asks.

“Ah,” he says, pulling the business card out of his pocket and handing it to her. “Dan Filch. Ohio state gaming commission. We’re trying to contact Brian, tell him the good news.”

She looks up from his card. “He won the lottery?”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” he lies. It’s best not to get too outlandish—he can already see she’s not really buying this.

“Really?” she asks, and he nods. “And, you’re looking for him? Don’t you guys wanna keep the money?”

“Sure, but we have to at least _try_ to contact the winners before the ticket expires,” he says. “Your brother’s does in six days. So, if you know where he is—”

“I don’t,” she interrupts. “Sorry, we’re not close. I haven’t spoken to him since he got back from Afghanistan.”

It’s a blatant lie, but calling her on it would be counterproductive.

“Well, now you have a reason to,” he says cheerfully. “Fifty thousand reasons, actually.”

She laughs a little, and on that note, he decides to end the conversation. He doesn’t want to push too hard and spook her.

“So, let us know if you hear from him,” he finishes, and walks away, receiving a very quiet agreement from Laura Hayward as he does.

Coulson’s waiting in the car.

“Not sure why you wanted to go with lottery story, sir,” Grant says as he walks around to the passenger side. “It’s a tough sell.”

“Exactly,” Coulson agrees. “Nothing makes people more suspicious than a handsome man offering them free money. She’s making the call now.”

Oh. He really should have expected that kind of plan from Coulson, Grant muses. Relying on the cover story to _fail_ to trick Hayward’s sister into contacting him is exactly the sort of convoluted scheme Coulson likes.

There must be some kind of tracker embedded in the business card Grant just gave Laura Hayward, because the tablet Coulson’s holding activates and zooms in on a map. Due to the sun’s glare on the screen, Grant can't quite make it out, and he asks Coulson if Hayward is local.

“No,” Coulson says. “He’s in Oakland, California.”

\---

Back on the Bus, Grant changes out of his suit and into the bare bones of his tactical gear. He leaves off his weapons and his vest, of course—it’s a five hour flight, he’ll have plenty of time to finish getting ready later.

Once he’s changed, he goes in search of Jemma. Predictably, she’s in the lab. Less predictably, she appears to be sewing. Or at least, she’s running fabric through what looks an awful lot like a sewing machine. Over at his workstation, Fitz seems to be doing the same, and Grant is officially confused.

“Finally get bored with science?” he asks, joining Jemma at her workstation.

“You’re back!” she says, stopping the sewing machine and giving him a bright smile. “How did it go?”

He’s amused that she apparently didn’t notice when he and Coulson returned (to be fair, she does have her back to the cargo bay) or that they took off ten minutes ago. Jemma has a tendency to get completely absorbed in her work—even when that work is sewing, apparently.

“Fine,” he says. “Hayward’s in California. We’ll be there in a few hours. Why are you sewing?”

“Oh!” she says, looking down at the half-sewn blue…shirt? It looks like a shirt. “It’s a uniform for Agent Peterson. It offers ballistic protection, of course, but more importantly it will allow us to monitor his vitals so we know if he’s in danger of exploding. Or at least it should. We still have some tests to run.”

“Cool,” he says, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. It feels weird, and he thinks he’ll stick with his tac gear. Of course, he’s in no danger of spontaneous combustion. “Are you worried about that? The exploding, I mean? I thought SHIELD cured him.”

Jemma hesitates. “Well, actually…Fitz and I cured him. Or so Agent Peterson said. Apparently, the dendrotoxin round from the night-night rifle froze him at the moment of the explosion, allowing his body to absorb the Extremis serum and stabilize it somehow.”

“You don’t look very happy, for someone who just found out she saved a man’s life,” he observes. “More than we already thought you did, that is.”

“No, of course I’m happy,” she insists. “It’s just…” She pauses, then shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”

He eyes her, considering. It’s obviously _something_ , but is it _something_ enough that he should force the issue? Or should he let her work through it and bring it up when she’s ready?

She looks thoughtful and a little unhappy, but not distressed. Not frightened. Whatever’s bothering her, it’s not likely to put her (or anyone else, which would upset her more) in danger. He’ll let her work through it.

In the meantime, he really doesn’t like seeing her unhappy. Which means that it’s time for a distraction.

“So, how does this suit work?” he asks.

All traces of unhappiness disappear as Jemma enthusiastically explains the suit. He only catches about three words of the science behind it, but he understands her account of the suit’s history well enough. Apparently, she and Fitz drew up plans for it a few years ago, after Tony Stark started running around causing trouble as Iron Man.

“It was just a thought exercise, really,” she says. She resumed her sewing halfway through her explanation, and her attention is fixed on the sewing machine as she speaks. “We were curious about the effect the Iron Man suit would have on the human body and began to speculate about possible means of monitoring the situation whilst the suit was in flight. We drew up plans for several different suits, but we never had any intention of actually making them. Especially after it became obvious that Mr. Stark isn’t interested in sharing _any_ sort of data about his Iron Man technology.”

Fitz sighs heavily, and Grant glances at him. He’s pouting—there’s no other way to describe the look on his face—but Grant can’t blame him. Considering how excited Fitz gets about engineering and robotics, it must be a heavy blow to be denied access to Iron Man, which is basically the ultimate robot.

“This is a bit exciting, really,” Jemma says brightly, after a sympathetic glance at Fitz. “We never thought we’d have the opportunity to actually _use_ any of our designs. There’s not as much time for testing as I’d like, but it will be interesting to see how well the suit stands up in the field.”

“So,” Grant says, drumming his fingers on her arm. “I’m guessing that means I don’t have much hope of getting you upstairs for lunch.”

“No, I’m afraid not. We need to begin testing as soon as possible.”

“All right, but you owe me two meals tomorrow,” he tells her.

She looks up from the sewing machine to give him a bright smile. “Deal.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

He presses a kiss to her temple, just to see her smile again, and then leaves the lab, ruffling Fitz’s hair as he passes. Fitz’s indignant protest gets swallowed up by the lab door closing behind him, and he lingers in the cargo bay for a moment, considering. He’s got five hours to kill and not a lot to do. He’s too keyed up to just sit around reading, but if he’s about to go toe to toe with Centipede soldiers, he doesn’t want to waste energy on training or sparring.

What he needs is a distraction and, unfortunately, science won’t cut it for him.

First things first, he’s starving, so he heads up to the kitchen. He finds Skye there, dancing to the song playing from the iPod speakers in the corner. It sounds vaguely familiar, probably something he’s heard playing in a store or restaurant recently, and the beat is admittedly catchy. Still, he’s not really the dancing type, so he leans against the counter and resists all of Skye’s attempts to drag him into her dance.

“You’re no fun,” she says as the song ends and a new one begins. She detaches her iPod from the speakers and makes a face at him. “What are you doing up here? Do robots even need to eat?”

“This one does,” he answers, turning to open the fridge now that he doesn’t have to worry about Skye getting in the way. “What about you? Get lost on the way to Jazzercise?”

“Jazzercise? Really?” Skye mocks. “What is this, 2005? If I got lost, it would be on the way to Zumba.”

“That’s…not much better,” he says, but he makes a mental note. Spending so much time undercover, often in poverty-stricken areas, can make it difficult to keep up with trends. He needs all the intelligence he can get on current crazes, and Skye’s a pretty reliable source, as long as she doesn’t know that he’s using her as one.

If she ever finds out, she’ll do everything she can to screw with him. So he’ll make sure she never finds out.

There’s leftover pizza with his name on it on the second shelf, and he takes it out of the fridge just as the microwave beeps.

“Finally!” Skye groans, rushing to open the microwave and remove the contents. “God, I’m starving.”

He shakes his head when he realizes she’s eating Easy Mac, but doesn’t comment, instead pulling a plate out of the cabinet and sticking his pizza on it and into the microwave. He hits the reheat pizza button, then leans back against the counter to wait.

Skye mixes the cheese powder into her Easy Mac, then eats it over the island.

“So,” she says around a mouthful. “We’ve got…what, four hours to go?”

“Just about,” he agrees, checking his watch.

“What are you gonna do?” she asks. “Make sure all your gears are oiled?”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t snap back at her. These days, most of her cracks about him being soulless or a robot (or a soulless robot) are just jokes. There’s no malice in them, not anymore. In fact, he’d almost call them fond.

Instead, he shrugs. “Don’t know yet.”

“I’m in the mood to win something,” Skye declares. “Battleship?”

“Sure,” he says over the beeping of the microwave. “But you’re not gonna win.”

“Bring it on,” she says.

\---

They end up winning three games each, and they’re about to start a tie-breaker round when the intercom dings.

“Ten minutes out,” May announces, and Grant and Skye trade looks.

“Finish this later?” Skye asks.

“Definitely,” Grant agrees.

They box up the game and then go their separate ways, Grant to put on his tac vest and his weapons, and Skye…

Well, who knows, with her.

Once he’s suited up, he goes down to the cargo bay and finds Peterson wearing the suit Jemma and Fitz designed. They’re fussing over him, going over the details and asking about its fit, and Grant has to hold back a smile at Jemma’s clear delight. Apparently testing went well. As far as Grant’s concerned, having powers is cheating, but he has to admit the suit looks pretty cool.

Still, he’s happy to stick with his tac gear, and judging by the admiring look she gives him when he joins her, Jemma is, too.

Coulson comes down the stairs, followed by Skye and May, just as Peterson is thanking Jemma and Fitz for the suit. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, instead jumping straight to the briefing. They’ve still got a trace on Hayward’s cell phone, and it’s led them to an abandoned factory less than ten miles from the airfield where they’re parked.

“Probably Centipede’s new lab,” Grant says. It’s also probably a trap; Garrett doesn’t employ people this sloppy. Not for long, at least—if this isn’t a trap, Grant doesn’t envy Po the reaction Garrett will have to his failure to properly monitor his people.

“Certainly been their M.O.,” Coulson agrees. “We destroy one factory, they set up another, putting us back to square one. This time I want answers.”

“Means we go in quiet, do minimal damage to the facility and the people inside,” May finishes.

“Ward, May, you’ll go in through the west entrance,” Coulson orders, displaying the factory’s blueprints on the tablet he’s holding. “Mr. Peterson and I will enter through the loading dock.” He looks at Jemma and Fitz. “You’ll run the back end from outside.”

Jemma nods, while Grant squashes his urge to protest. He and Jemma are allowed their exemption as long as their relationship doesn’t hinder their ability to do their jobs, and insisting Jemma remain on the Bus instead of doing her job would definitely count against them. In any case, as long as Grant does _his_ job, none of the Centipede soldiers will get anywhere near the team’s non-combatants.

“We’re doing this with just us?” Skye asks, incredulous. “We’ve been playing whack-a-mole with these guys since Ward first picked me out of my van. Shouldn’t Big SHIELD be sending in back-up?”

“Trust me,” Coulson says, looking at Peterson. “They already did.”

Peterson gives them a serious nod.

“Let’s move,” May says.

Sometime during the flight, Coulson arranged to rent a van, which Jemma, Fitz, and Skye will be using to run back-end. It’s waiting for them just outside the Bus, which means this is where they go their separate ways—Grant and the rest of the team will be taking the SUV.

He stops Jemma before she can go down the ramp.

“Be careful,” he orders.

She gives him a look, obviously not impressed by his tone, but it softens after a moment. He’s never been great about hiding how much he hates bringing her into the field, and he knows his worry is written all over his face right now. There’s no question that Garrett _wants_ them at this factory, which means he’s got something brewing. The problem is, Grant has no idea what his play is. And he’s not happy about bringing Jemma into this kind of situation.

She squeezes his arm gently. “You, too.”

Then she steps away and heads down the ramp, and he lets her go. What else can he do?

\---

At first glance, the factory seems like a weird choice of base. Run down and abandoned, it’s obviously seen better days; half of the windows are broken, and it looks like there’s been a fire recently. However, from a tactical standpoint, it’s a good choice. There’s very little space between the factory and its surrounding buildings, all of which are abandoned. It would be easy enough to gain roof access to and from the other buildings, and the state of the area means there’s no one around to notice any unusual movement.

It’s perfect for a secret base—and an ambush.

After making sure the van parks a fair distance away—close enough to provide back-up, far enough not to gain attention from any security the factory might have—May parks the SUV just outside the factory. It’s not subtle, but they’re not really trying to be. And it’s important to have easy access to the vehicle, in case they have to make a quick getaway.

In accordance with the plan, they split up after exiting the SUV, and Grant follows May to the west entrance. There’s no sign of external security: no cameras, no motion detectors, no guards…there’s not even a lock on the door, and it puts him on edge. This is looking more and more like a trap every second. He exchanges a glance with May that tells him she’s thinking the same thing, and then they enter the factory.

There’s no sign of internal security, either. Also not present: scientists, labs, or soldiers. The only things they find in the factory are shipping containers and the occasional forklift. Every instinct Grant has is screaming at him to get out of the factory, ASAP, and it takes all of his training to keep up a calm façade. This is definitely a trap.

“We alone here?” Coulson asks after a few minutes.

“It appears so,” Jemma answers. “The only heat signatures we’re reading are yours.”

“But there’s a _weird_ electronic signal,” Skye adds. “I’m trying to isolate it.”

Grant keeps his eyes open for signs of movement as he and May enter another room, which a giant sign denotes as Area 6.

“Place looks emptied out,” he comments, gaining a nod from May. “Think we’re too late?”

“Fitz, dial Hayward’s number,” Coulson orders. “Find out.”

Grant and May continue across the room as they wait to hear Fitz’s response, but they freeze at the sound of a distant crash.

“Erm, sir, you’ve got company,” Fitz announces.

“Yeah, we do,” Coulson agrees.

May gestures sharply at the door, then takes off for it without waiting for a response from Grant. He follows her, alerting Coulson that they’re on the way, but they don’t even make it out of the room. The doors of one of the shipping containers fly open as they pass it, and a man dressed in fatigues storms out.

He doesn’t bother with conversation, instead instantly swinging at Grant. He may have super-strength, but his technique is seriously sloppy, and it’s easy enough for Grant to dodge all of the attempted blows. He throws himself to the side to avoid a kick, and May moves in, giving the Centipede soldier the chance to practice _his_ evasion.

Two against one are usually good odds, but Grant has never practiced tandem fighting with May, and it works against them. The Centipede soldier gets in a hit, punching Grant hard enough to knock him off balance (ow), and he stumbles away as May kicks the soldier in the face.

As Grant regains his feet, the soldier is obviously gearing up to hit May, and after a split second of strategizing, Grant throws himself in front of the blow. It has the full force of the soldier’s strength behind it, and it sends him flying backwards a few feet, where he lands hard on his side ( _ow_ ). It knocks the breath out of him, and he stays there for a moment, dazed, as May goes after the soldier.

Coulson and Peterson’s fight has migrated, just as theirs has, so they’re all within seeing distance of one another now. This allows Grant to watch as Coulson gets tossed to the side, where he stays slumped against a container, and as Peterson throws a soldier halfway across the room, only for the man to get right back up. At the same time, the soldier he and May have been fighting manages to knock her down, and Grant shoves himself to his feet.

The soldiers ignore him, though, all three of them moving towards Peterson. The one Grant belatedly identifies as Hayward gets to him first, and after a brief struggle manages to impale Peterson with a piece of rebar. Apparently satisfied by this, the other two soldiers turn back to face Grant, and May surges to her feet.

He can hear Jemma speaking on the comms, but he can’t afford to listen, instead blocking her out to focus on fighting the Centipede soldier. The man is going after him with all of his strength, holding nothing back, and if he gets in a hit in the right place, he could kill Grant with one blow.

The soldier lands a punch that sends Grant stumbling backwards just as Peterson manages to take down Hayward. The soldier Grant is fighting exchanges a look with the soldier May has been fighting, and then both take off, running full bore out of the factory.

Grant doesn’t bother to pursue. Instead, he leans back against some crates, taking the opportunity to catch his breath—and to congratulate himself on his control. He didn’t once lose hold on his temper during that fight, not even when he was getting thrown around, and he’s more than a little proud of that. His sessions with May have definitely paid off.

He listens to Coulson attempting to question Hayward, and Hayward’s pleading, which cuts off mid-sentence. He must be equipped with a kill switch of some kind, because after a moment Coulson makes a disgusted sound.

“He’s dead,” he says. “Is there anyone else here?”

“No, sir,” Jemma answers after a moment.

“That signal’s gone,” Skye adds. “So you’re really alone this time. Probably.”

“This looks like a kill-switch,” Coulson says. “And I’m getting déjà vu. Fitz, do you have the gear you need to do a full scan of Hayward’s body, or do we need to bring him back to the Bus?”

“Uh, no, sir,” Fitz says, obviously startled. “I’ve got what I need. Do you want me to come in, then?”

Coulson looks over at Grant, still leaning against a crate, and then May, who’s finishing a quick patch job on Peterson’s wound.

“Agent May will escort you in,” he decides. May nods her acknowledgement, double checks Peterson’s bandage, and then leaves. “Ward, call this in to SHIELD. We need someone to deal with Hayward’s body and a team to sweep the building, see if there’s any trace of Centipede left.”

“Are you expecting any, sir?” Grant asks as he pulls his phone out of his tac vest. There’s a protected pocket for it, which is good, since that fight definitely would have broken it otherwise. He’s really going to be feeling this one tomorrow.

“No,” Coulson says. He shakes his head a little, looking around the factory. “This was a trap, not a lab. Still, better safe than sorry.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agrees, and dials SHIELD HQ. As the phone rings, he starts to remove his comm, but he’s stopped by Jemma’s voice.

“If this was a trap, sir…what were they hoping to catch?”

“That’s a good question, Simmons,” Coulson says quietly. “That’s a very good question.”

\---

Twenty minutes later, they’re back on the Bus. Jemma gives Grant a quick once-over, but determines that he hasn’t taken any serious damage and lets him go after cleaning the abrasions on his face. She’d usually fuss more, but Peterson has an actual hole in his torso, and that does take priority. Grant leaves her to her work and heads up to the cabin level; his adrenaline has worn off and he _really_ needs a drink.

His mind is spinning, an endless jumble of how much he hurts right now, how much worse it’s going to be tomorrow, what exactly was the point of that trap, did Garrett get what he wanted, if not there’s going to be another one, and he really, really hopes it won’t be anytime soon, because he could sleep for a week.

He drops his vest in his bunk and then beelines for the bar, where he grabs a bottle of beer. The temptation to reach for something stronger is there, but he ignores it. He can’t afford any hard liquor right now, not when there’s a good chance they’re going to get pulled into another confrontation with Centipede soon.

He alternates between drinking and resting the cold bottle against the side of his face, which is stinging like a bitch. He’s on his second bottle and giving serious thought to searching out some painkillers when May appears.

“Pour you a scotch?” he offers, putting his beer down and turning to face the bar. He’s a little embarrassed to be caught wincing over such trivial damage, especially by the Calvary, of all people.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she hisses, and he freezes in the act of reaching for a glass.

“Brandy, then?” he guesses, more than a little confused.

“What was that?” she demands. “Why the hell did you take that punch?”

Oh, that.

“Purely tactical,” he defends. “You’re faster than me; you’re more use on your feet.”

May relaxes slightly, but she still looks a little suspicious. Knowing what he does about a certain incident which took place in Zagreb nearly twenty years ago, he has a pretty good idea of what this is about.

“Hey, I’m the last person who’s gonna question your ability in the field,” he continues. “I know you don’t need my protection.”

May looks at him for a long moment, apparently evaluating his sincerity, and then nods. “Good.”

“Okay,” he says, picking his beer up. “Glad that’s settled.”

He doesn’t bother to excuse himself, knowing she won’t appreciate it, and instead just walks away.  He knocks back the rest of his beer, pitches the bottle, and then makes his way down to the lab. He passes Peterson on the stairs, and they exchange weary nods.

It’s been a long day, but something tells him it’s not over yet.

In the lab, he finds Jemma cleaning the table she’s obviously just used as an impromptu exam bed. Fitz is near the monitor, poking at a tablet and muttering to himself. The monitor itself is displaying x-rays of two different skulls, and a quick glance is enough to tell him what they have in common, and, more importantly, why they’re relevant.

“Hayward had an eye like Amador’s?” he asks, even though the answer is obvious.

Jemma and Fitz both jump a little, and for what must be the hundredth time, Grant makes a mental note to work on situational awareness with them. There’s always something more important to do—missions, weapons training, grocery runs, whatever—but it really is a vital skill, which both of his favorite scientists are sadly lacking in.

“Grant,” Jemma says, pressing a hand to her heart. “I didn’t see you there.” She strips off her gloves and throws them away, then glances at the monitor, apparently recalling his question. “Yes, he did. We had to reconstruct it digitally, since it was damaged in the explosion that killed him, but it appears to be virtually identical to the one Agent Amador had.”

“So Centipede was behind that, too,” Grant concludes. He already knew that, of course, thanks to his inside information, and he doesn’t know what will change, now that the rest of the team knows, too.

“The only difference,” Fitz interjects. “Is that this one is untraceable. Skye can’t hack the feed.”

“Our last encounter proved that they have access to incredibly advanced technology,” Jemma continues. “And it’s advanced exponentially further in only two months. They’re obviously very well-funded. Coulson thinks that might be the role this _Clairvoyant_ plays in the operation.”

It’s a reasonable enough theory, and it’s even partially true. Garrett’s the mastermind behind Centipede, but he’s also funding it, as Coulson has guessed. Which means that, at least as far as Grant can tell, all this trap has accomplished is teaching the team more about Centipede. That can’t have been Garrett’s goal.

“So,” he says, shaking off his contemplations. He’ll understand Garrett’s plan when Garrett wants him to, and not a moment sooner. There’s no point in worrying about it right now. “You done for the night?”

Jemma looks around the lab like she’s expecting an experiment to pop out of a closet, then turns to smile at him. “It appears so.”

“Join me for dinner?” he asks.

“I’d be delighted,” she says. She takes off her lab coat and hangs it on the back of her chair, then looks at Fitz. “Coming, Fitz?”

“No, I want to take another look at the schematics for these eyes,” Fitz says, waving her off. “I’ll eat later.”

“Very well,” Jemma says. “Let me know if you find anything interesting.”

“Obviously,” Fitz scoffs.

Jemma smiles, apparently not bothered by the sharp tone, and takes Grant’s hand.

“Looks like it’s just us,” she comments as they leave the lab. “What were you thinking of eating?”

“Something quick,” he says. “I’m ready to crash.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jemma laughs. “Between your morning training, sparring with Agent May, and fighting with enhanced soldiers, I’m impressed you can even walk right now.” She flicks him a concerned glance. “Are you sure your face took the worst of the damage?”

“I’m sure,” he promises. “My vest bore the brunt of it.”

It’s true; without the vest, he probably would have at least bruised some of his ribs hitting the ground after being thrown back by that punch he took for May. He’s grateful this is the kind of assignment that lets him use tac gear; he can’t imagine going up against Centipede soldiers with nothing but the clothes on his back. Well, actually, he can, which is why he’s so grateful he doesn’t have to.

“Good,” Jemma says as they enter the kitchen. She crosses to the pantry and opens it, examining their options. “How does soup sound?”

“Works for me,” he agrees, leaning against the island. He thinks about sitting down, but he’s not entirely sure he’d be able to keep from falling asleep right there at the table. “What kind?”

She checks the can. “Vegetable beef.”

“Cool,” he says, and watches as she sticks two soup cans into the microwave. They’re the to-go type, so they’re ready in minutes, and the two of them take their soup over to the table. “I can’t promise not to fall asleep in this soup.”

“Poor darling,” Jemma says, amused. “You really have had a long day, haven’t you?”

He points his spoon at her. “Are you mocking me?”

“Never,” she swears, crossing her heart.

He gives her a playfully suspicious look, but lets it go, lacking the energy for banter.

“So,” Jemma says. “I know what I did all day. How did you spend the flight?”

“Playing Battleship with Skye,” he answers once he’s swallowed.

“Oh?” Jemma asks. “Who won?”

“It was a tie. Three to three.” Under the table, he nudges her foot with his. “I’m guessing you didn’t have a chance to ask Coulson about time off.”

“You guess correctly,” she confirms. “I barely had time to think of it before we got the alert about the break-out at the prison, and since then…”

“Since then you haven’t had a minute to breathe,” he finishes. “Which reminds me, how did that suit hold up in the field?”

“Oh, it worked perfectly,” she says, brightening. “Obviously the ballistic protection wasn’t much use, but then, it’s not designed to defend against rebar. As far as the other purpose of the suit, however, it was flawless. We were able to monitor Agent Peterson’s vitals the entire time, and identified…”

He usually does his best to follow her scientific chatter, no matter how futile his efforts may be, but this time he allows her words to fade out and just focuses on the sound of her voice, letting it wash over him and soothe away the lingering tension in his spine. He watches the play of emotion on her face, tracks her enthusiastic gesturing, and permits himself a few minutes to forget his worries and instead marvel in the perfection of the woman that fate somehow saw fit to tie him to.

Of course the moment can’t last; they’re just cleaning up their dishes when Peterson comes tearing across the lounge and rushes up the stairs to Coulson’s office.  He’s obviously panicking, and Grant has a sinking feeling that they’re about to be sent into another trap.

“Perhaps we should wait on going to bed,” Jemma says, staring after Peterson.

“Good idea,” Grant agrees.

They don’t have to wait long. Less than five minutes later, Coulson comes on the intercom, demanding everyone’s presence in the lounge, ASAP. His voice is has that particularly calm tone that he only gets in the middle of a crisis, and Grant and Jemma exchange concerned looks as they leave the kitchen and cross the briefing room to get to the lounge.

Skye is the first to join them, appearing from her bunk mere seconds later.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“We don’t know,” Jemma says. “But we saw Agent Peterson go up to Agent Coulson’s office a few minutes ago. He looked very upset.”

Skye looks up at the ceiling like she expects to see through it to Coulson’s office, but Fitz enters the lounge before she can speak.

“What now?” he demands. Jemma gives him a little shrug, and he sighs. “Perfect.”

Coulson and Peterson enter from the briefing room, closely followed by May, and they all turn to look at Coulson expectantly. Peterson, on the other hand, throws himself onto the couch and folds his hands together like he’s about to start praying.

“Centipede has kidnapped Mr. Peterson’s son, Ace,” Coulson announces.

Shit. Another trap it is, then.

Jemma, Skye, and Fitz are obviously horrified, all three speaking over each other and demanding details, while May’s face has gone terrifyingly blank. Coulson holds up a hand for silence, and gets it at once. Grant can tell Skye is practically vibrating in place with the need to comfort Peterson, but she’s smart enough to know it won’t be appreciated at the moment.

Coulson tells them that Centipede wants to trade Ace for Peterson, which gets a similar reaction. It’s Jemma’s theory, however, that gets Grant’s attention. She thinks that Centipede wants to study Peterson, find out why he still has his abilities, and Garrett’s plan is suddenly clear.

Of course Garrett would know about Peterson, who’s been training with SHIELD for months, now. He knows that Peterson’s maintained his abilities, even though he hasn’t had so much as a drop of the serum since September, and hasn’t exploded, even though he doesn’t have any of Chan Ho Yin’s platelets. It makes perfect sense that Garrett wants his scientists to take a look at Peterson, find out how he’s a super-strong agent in training instead of a charred corpse, and kidnapping is the best way to do it.

But it would be difficult to stage a kidnapping at a SHIELD facility, so Garrett needed to get Peterson offsite. Obviously the best way to get Peterson offsite was a mission, and of course, since he’s still only in training, not just any mission would get him out of the facility. But tracking down Centipede, after the organization displayed its strength with _three_ super soldiers, would be enough for SHIELD to call in their own super soldier for back-up.

(Well, the super soldier _other_ than Captain America, who can’t be involved, since the Avengers can’t know that Coulson’s alive.)

Everything makes perfect sense now—Po’s flashy escape from prison, the ambush at the factory, and even the way all three of the Centipede soldiers focused on Peterson. It’s a relief to know what’s going on, and now it’s much easier for Grant to push down his thoughts and focus on the plan.

Apparently Coulson called HQ and told them to stand down, which does _not_ impress May.

“So we take ‘em alone,” Grant surmises. That’s…not gonna be fun.

“We should at least have a Hostage Rescue Unit in support of this,” May argues.

“They said they would murder my son,” Peterson interrupts. He’s shaking as he looks up at May, and it silences all of them. “If we make _one_ wrong move.”

“Any electronics, any comms, any sign of surveillance,” Coulson clarifies. “And they’ll terminate the arrangement.”

By which Coulson means they’ll terminate the kid.

“I’ll give myself up, no problem, get him back,” Peterson insists. “I can figure it out from there.”

“You’re still recovering,” Skye points out. “We can’t just hand you over to them like that!” She glares at Coulson. “Can we?”

“FitzSimmons,” Coulson says. “You have a non-electronic method of tracking, don’t you?”

Jemma straightens slightly, looking relieved. “Yes, of course.”

“Simmons has fabricated an odorless scent,” Fitz says. “I have an instrument which can detect it. Works like a bloodhound. Can track someone from over fifty kilometers.”

“After we make the trade, we’ll be able to follow Mr. Peterson,” Coulson says. “Buy him some time to get his strength back. We’ll find him.”

Peterson insists he doesn’t care what happens to him, as long as Ace is okay, and Coulson promises that Ace will be fine. Then they get down to planning the op.

“We’re making the trade at this bridge,” Coulson says, bringing up what looks suspiciously like Google street view. “At the moment, it’s closed for construction, so we don’t need to worry about civilian interference. Ward, you have sniper training?”

It’s more a statement than a question—Coulson’s used him as a sniper before, after all—and he nods in acknowledgement.

“Good. There’s a building here,” Coulson points out, indicating an office building near the bridge. “You’re going to keep an eye on things from this fire escape.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant says, studying the picture. It’s a little difficult to judge distance from the image, but it looks like the building is about 1400 meters away. The .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge is probably his best bet.

“FitzSimmons, how long will it take to apply the tracker?” Coulson asks.

“Only a few seconds, sir,” Jemma answers.

“Okay, here’s how it’s gonna go,” Coulson says. “Agent May and I will take the SUV and lead the way to the bridge. Ward, Skye, FitzSimmons, and Peterson, you’re in the van. You’ll drop Ward at the building then proceed to the bridge.”

Grant starts a little at this, but quashes his urge to object. Centipede wants Peterson, and Peterson’s what they’re getting. There’s no reason for them to move against the rest of the team unless the team interferes directly, which they won’t be doing. They’ll be fine.

“I’ll escort Mr. Peterson to the meeting with Raina,” Coulson continues. “We’ll make the trade, get Ace to safety, and then use FitzSimmons’ tracer to follow Mr. Peterson back to Centipede’s base. Any questions?”

There aren’t.

“We’ve got thirty minutes to get to the Bridge, and it’s twenty away. Let’s get a move on, people.”

Effectively dismissed, Grant heads for his bunk. He’s grateful that he didn’t take the time to change out of his gear when they got back to the Bus earlier—it means that all he has to do is grab his tac vest and then get a rifle from one of the heavy arms cases in the cargo bay.

He runs into Peterson at the bottom of the stairs. The man is jittery, clenching and unclenching his fists as he paces in circles. It pings at his instincts, but he brushes it off, figuring it’s only natural that Peterson’s nervous. His son’s life is on the line, for god’s sake.

Grant’s not great at comforting people, especially strangers, and in any case there’s probably not much _anyone_ could do to comfort a man whose only son is in the hands of people who are entirely willing to kill him, so he just claps Peterson on the shoulder and keeps moving.

After some thought, he decides on the DTA Stealth Recon Scout. He loads it into the back of the van, then double checks the case to make sure the suppressor and the bipod are undamaged. He’s just relocking the case when Jemma comes down the cargo ramp. She’s got a case of her own, presumably the tracker, and she looks unusually serious.

“Hey,” he says, taking the case from her and putting it in the van. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s just,” she shakes her head sharply. “I can’t stop thinking about that poor little boy.”

He should have expected that. Of course Jemma, empathetic as she is, is worrying about Peterson’s son. Unfortunately, he can’t exactly promise her that Centipede won’t harm Ace—he doesn’t know Raina personally, but Garrett does tend towards employing ruthless people. There’s every chance that Raina will hurt the kid just out of spite.

“We’re going to get him back,” he promises. It’s the only promise he can make, really.

Jemma nods, resolute. “Of course we are.”

Fitz approaches them and hands them their comms with a brief reminder that Coulson and Peterson won’t be tuned in, then climbs into the van, followed by Peterson and Skye.

“Time to go,” Grant says.

“Be careful,” Jemma orders.

“Hey, I’ll be more than a thousand meters from the scene,” he points out. “I’m in the least amount of danger here.”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “I’ll believe _that_ when I see it.”

\---

Fifteen minutes later, Skye stops the van a few hundred meters down the road from the office building Grant will be using as a sniper perch. The drive from the airfield was completely silent, with none of the banter that usually marks this kind of mission. Everyone’s completely aware that the life of Peterson’s son hangs in the balance, and the tension in the van has been climbing with every passing mile.

No one speaks now, either. Jemma squeezes his hand, Fitz gives him a nod, and Skye passes him the case holding his rifle as he climbs out of the van. Peterson doesn’t even look at him, but he doesn’t take it personally.

He gives them a half-assed salute, then makes his way down the street as the van drives off. It’s only minutes before he’s at the top of the fire escape, and he assembles the rifle quickly. He’s in position and watching through the scope before May and Coulson drive up in the SUV.

“I’m in position,” he reports briefly.

There’s a double click on the line, May’s acknowledgement of his report, and he settles in to wait. The comms are off now that he’s confirmed his position, and they won’t be back on until Ace is safely in the team’s custody, just in case Raina comes armed with scanning tech. Which means there’s nothing to distract him except his thoughts.

That Ace will survive isn’t in question; Raina might be ruthless, but Coulson certainly isn’t. He won’t risk the kid’s life, so he won’t be trying anything. The trade will go down as planned, and it’s what happens after that’s worrying Grant. If Jemma and Fitz say they can track Peterson, they can, and that’s not a good thing.

Because apparently Peterson might hold the key to fixing the Centipede serum, and the whole point of developing the Centipede serum is finding a way to save Garrett’s life. Making super soldiers and creating an army for HYDRA, that’s just a side benefit. The goal here is to cure Garrett, and rescuing Peterson from Centipede too early might prevent the scientists from finding a cure.

He has no idea what he’s going to do, how he’s going to delay the rescue, but he can’t worry about it now. Right now he needs to focus.

He activates the night vision scope as a sedan drives up from the other side of the bridge, and watches as Raina and the soldiers from the factory get out. One of the soldiers circles around to stand by the back passenger door, where he presumes the boy is sitting. The other follows Raina as she walks toward Coulson and Peterson.

Grant follows Raina’s progress along the bridge, keeping her in his sights until he’s blocked by a cement mixer parked on the side of the road. He swears quietly and adjusts his view to follow Coulson and Peterson. They’re briefly blocked by the cab of the cement mixer, but come back into view and stop in the gap between the cab and the mixer itself. Which would be helpful if he were planning on shooting one of _them_ , but as he’s not…

It’s useless. This location was very well chosen. He has no view, no shot, and nowhere to move to give him one. All he can do is wait.

After a few minutes, Peterson and Coulson move forward, out of his view. He checks the other side of the cement mixer, but Raina and the other soldier are still blocked by it. He’s still got nothing.

Eventually, the soldier by the sedan opens the door, and Ace Peterson gets out. He runs forward, presumably to his father, and the soldier follows. Now they’re all blocked by the cement mixer, and he, once again, has nothing.

Nothing except a bad feeling, that is. He does a quick visual scan of the bridge, and nothing pops at out at him, but his instincts are screaming. There’s something he’s missing here, something he’s not seeing.

The bad feeling intensifies as he watches Peterson appear from behind the cement mixer, carrying his son. That’s not the plan. Coulson’s supposed to have Ace, while Peterson goes with Raina. If Peterson’s got Ace instead…

He pivots his rifle to watch the other side of the cement mixer, and, sure enough, Raina appears at once, followed by the two soldiers, dragging Coulson between them. He doesn’t have time to consider that and what it might mean; he hears the beep of the comms coming back online and shuts off his racing thoughts in order to better act as Grant Ward, agent of SHIELD.

“What happened?” he demands. “They took Coulson. All right, call it in, we need back-up.”

There’s no answer from the others.

“I have a shot,” he says, keeping the sights locked on the soldiers. In a minute, they’ll be in the car, and he’ll lose his chance.

“Do not engage,” May orders sharply. “They’ll kill Coulson. Stand down, I’ll contact HQ.”

He eases his finger off the trigger and watches as Coulson is dragged closer to the sedan. He’s clearly unconscious, and Grant can’t hold back the irreverent thought that Coulson’s going to be furious when he sees how badly his expensive Italian shoes are scuffed.

He catches movement off to the side and pivots the rifle again, watching as Peterson runs across the bridge towards the sedan. There’s no sign of Ace, and he looks back to the team’s vehicles to see Skye holding the kid.

He’s about to focus back on Raina and the soldiers when there’s a deafening bang; the cement mixer explodes just as Peterson runs by it. Even from this distance, he can hear Skye scream, and he pulls away from the rifle briefly to take in the fire lighting up the bridge.

There are easier ways to kill a man; that explosion was probably a distraction. He quickly focuses on the other side of the bridge, but there’s no one in sight. The windows on the sedan are tinted, and he can’t tell whether anyone is inside of it.

“Where’s Coulson?” he asks.

In response, the sedan blows up.

There’s complete silence on the comms. None of them dare to ask the obvious question: was Coulson in that sedan? The silence seems to stretch out for eternity, but it can only be seconds later that it’s broken by the distinctive sound of a rotor.

A helicopter rises from below the bridge, passing through the smoke from the still-burning vehicles, and someone inside opens fire.

The next thing he knows he’s on the ground, flat on his back, his left shoulder screaming in pain. It takes a few seconds to push it aside, to think through it and realize what just happened and what he needs to do. He brings his right hand up and presses it against the wound in his shoulder, ignoring the agony it sends spiking down his arm and across his chest.

He’s been shot, obviously, and it’s definitely more than a graze this time. It hurts just as much as he remembers, and he breathes deeply, trying to focus, to force his thoughts into something resembling order.

There are voices in his ear, the team demanding to know his status, Jemma’s voice laced with something approaching panic, and it takes him longer than it should to realize the need to respond. The force of the bullet knocked him down, he remembers, and he cracked his head pretty hard. It’s possible he’s got a head injury, but he can’t check; he needs his right hand to keep pressure on his wound, and just twitching his left feels like having his entire arm set on fire.

If the job was easy, it wouldn’t be any fun. But he really hates getting shot.

The team is still shouting on the comms, sounding increasingly frantic, and he takes a breath to speak. Then he bites his tongue to keep from swearing, because breathing fucking hurts.

“I’m hit,” he grits out between his teeth.

May swears in three languages. “We’ve called in to HQ for back-up. Are you mobile?”

“If I need to be,” he says.

“For the moment, you don’t,” May decides. “Sit tight, Simmons and Skye are on their way to you.”

“Not going anywhere,” he assures her.

It’s only a few minutes later that he hears footsteps on the stairs behind him, and he makes the mistake of trying to look. Just the act of turning his head sends pain screaming through his shoulder, and this time he doesn’t bother to bite back his cursing. The footsteps speed up, and Jemma and Skye appear at the edge of his vision. Skye’s in the lead, her gun at the ready, and even though it feels like half of his body is on fire, he takes a moment to be proud of how far she’s come since she first joined the team. He’d like to think that at least a little of that is thanks to his training.

Skye checks that the fire escape is clear, then moves aside so that Jemma can kneel next to Grant.

“Didn’t I tell you to be careful?” she demands. She opens the white case she’s carrying, revealing a heavy duty first aid kit, and pulls out a flashlight.

“In my defense,” he says as she carefully unbuckles the left strap of his tac vest. “I wasn’t expecting another sniper.”

“I need to get this off of you to look at the wound,” she says, unbuckling the side buckles. “Can you move your hand, please?”

He obligingly takes his hand away from the gunshot wound, ignoring the spike of pain it causes. The tac vest is designed to be pulled apart from the top or either side, for just this reason, and she easily opens it, leaving the front of the vest lying over his right arm.

“This is going to hurt,” Jemma warns, and then slides her hand under him. She’s very careful, but it’s impossible not to jar his shoulder, and as predicted, it brings a fresh wave of agony to his shoulder. His vision whites out for a second as she pulls her hand back, and he can’t help swearing again.

“That didn’t sound good,” Skye observes uneasily.

“It’s not,” Jemma agrees. “There’s no exit wound, which means the bullet is still in him.” She shines the flashlight on his wound and takes a deep breath. “I’d prefer to get him to a proper hospital or med lab, but the bullet may move in transport.”

“Move in—you mean it could, like—” Skye breaks off, shaking her head. “You know what, I really don’t wanna know. Do what you have to, Simmons.”

Jemma makes eye contact with him. “As far as shoulder wounds go, this one is optimally placed. The bullet doesn’t appear to have penetrated far enough to cause any significant muscle damage, it hasn’t…”

She’s still talking, but her voice fades into background noise, and he can’t make himself focus again. He needs to listen, he knows he does, but he just can’t make it happen through the cotton that suddenly seems to be filling his ears. His head is still throbbing where it hit the concrete, and it takes longer than it should—although he’s actually not sure how long it does take—to register that he must have a head injury of some kind.

There’s another wave of pain from his shoulder, and he uses it to make himself focus. He realizes he’s lost time; there are a few portable lights set up around him, and his shirt has been cut away. Jemma’s wearing latex gloves now, and her hands are just leaving his shoulder. She’s holding an empty syringe, and after a minute (or three) he realizes she must have injected him with a local anesthetic.

She’s decided to perform the surgery right here on the fire escape, and he wonders if that’s a bad sign or a good one. The fact that she’s doing it herself instead of waiting for an actual medical doctor (trauma surgeon, he thinks, and his thoughts drift briefly to Ashton before he wrenches them back) says a lot. He’s just not sure _what_ it says. He should know, he thinks. He should be able to read everything she’s thinking from the lines of her face, but he can’t.

Honestly, he’s not entirely sure he could read an actual book right now.

“Head injury,” he says.

“What?” Jemma asks.

“Hit my head when I got shot,” he expands. Talking’s not easy; he’s having a bit of trouble judging his volume and he’s pretty sure he mumbled half of that sentence, but Jemma seems to understand him well enough.

“Bloody buggering hell,” she mutters, and he chokes on a laugh. Somehow, she even makes swearing sound adorable. “Skye, hand me that penlight, would you?”

He thinks he loses a few seconds, because the next thing he knows there’s a bright light shining in his eyes. He winces away from it, groaning, and Jemma shushes him.

“I know, darling, I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “Just a moment longer.”

The light disappears, and he hears her say something to Skye, but it’s fading to background noise again. A hand—not Jemma’s, it’s not soft enough—slides behind his neck and then up into his hair, and fingers brush against a spot on the back of his head that feels like having a railroad spike shoved into his skull.

It’s the last straw; he falls away from the pain into blissful unconsciousness.

\---

Pain brings him back to consciousness, and he’s swearing before he’s even fully aware of what’s happening.

“Language, Ward,” Skye teasingly chides. She sounds close, and he opens his eyes to see her leaning over him.

“Skye?” he asks. “What…”

He trails off as the memory returns. Peterson, Coulson, the bridge, getting shot, passing out…He can’t have been out for long; he’s still on the fire escape.

“Welcome back,” Skye says brightly. “Think you can sit up?”

His head is a lot clearer now, and when he shifts his weight, there’s hardly any pain from his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”

He manages it without help, although Skye hovers closely as he does, obviously expecting him to keel over any moment. Once he’s upright, he takes a look around, noting the changes since the last time he was aware enough to think clearly.

The first aid kit is gone and his rifle has been packed back into its case. The lights that were up earlier are gone, too, making the flashing lights from the SHIELD vehicles now filling the bridge a lot more noticeable. Most importantly, Jemma is nowhere in sight.

“Copy that,” Skye says, and for a moment he’s afraid that he’s not as coherent as he thinks he is. Then he realizes that she’s speaking into her comm and rolls his eyes at himself.

Grant’s tired of being on the ground, so he reaches behind himself and uses the railing as support as he climbs to his feet. His vision swims a little, but goes back to normal quickly enough. Apparently he’s not as badly off as he thought he was.

“Oh, cool, you’re up,” Skye notes. “Good. Was _not_ looking forward to trying to get you on your feet, gigantor.”

He ignores her and lifts his right hand to feel gingerly at the back of his head. There’s no wound that he can feel, and when he pulls his hand back there’s no blood on it.

“Yeah, you don’t have a head wound,” Skye says. “Simmons said you just rattled your brain a bit, and that plus the blood loss and the gaping _hole_ in your shoulder…” She shrugs. “Fitz brought his little portable brain scanner up and checked you out. You’re fine.”

He shifts his left shoulder. It hurts, but it’s much more bearable now. His shirt is still gone, allowing him to see that his wound is covered by a square of gauze. Jemma was right—it’s pretty much optimally placed. It won’t hinder him much at all.

He can work with this.

“I am,” he agrees. “Any word on Coulson?”

Skye sobers. “Not yet. FitzSimmons went to get the van—we’ve been ordered back to the Bus. Apparently we’re about to have some guests.”

“Guests?” he echoes dubiously. He bends down to pick up the case containing his sniper rifle, waving off Skye when she moves to help him. Again, the movement causes pain, but not nearly as much as before. He was hurting worse than this when he invaded Georgia five years ago.

If it weren’t for how clear his thinking is, he’d think Jemma gave him some serious painkillers.

“The back-up big SHIELD sent,” Skye answers. “They’ve pulled out all the stops to search for Coulson.”

“Good,” Grant says. He can see the van driving up the street, and motions Skye to lead the way down the stairs. “Any word on who they’re sending?”

Coulson being kidnapped is something he’s going to have to give more thought to later. At the moment, he’s Grant Ward, agent of SHIELD, and he can’t afford to consider Garrett’s motives.

“Yeah,” Skye says as they reach the ground and the van pulls to a stop at the curb. “Some Level Eight agent named Victoria Hand.”

Grant stops. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nooo,” Skye draws out. “Why? Do you know her?”

“You could say that,” he scoffs. He’s surprised by a sudden surge of rage, the likes of which he hasn’t felt since Tobias Ford attacked Jemma two weeks ago, and it takes him a few seconds to regain his calm. Getting shot and thrown around by Centipede soldiers didn’t come close to testing his control the way the mere mention of that name does.

Skye starts to speak, but she’s interrupted as the back of the van opens, and Jemma climbs out.

“Grant!” she exclaims, hurrying to join them on the curb. “I didn’t think you’d wake up so soon. How are you feeling?”

“A lot better,” he says honestly. “You must be some kind of miracle worker.”

“The head injury isn’t actually that severe,” she explains. “I believe the fainting was caused more by a mix of shock and blood loss than anything else. We’ll keep an eye on you, just to be sure, but you should be fine.”

“Good,” he says, loading the rifle into the back of the van. “I need to be, if we’re gonna get Coulson back.”

For a moment, Jemma looks like she’s about to argue, then she deflates.

“I know I can’t talk you out of it,” she says. “And to be honest, I’ll feel better knowing you’re involved in the search, but…”

“I’ll take it easy,” he promises when she doesn’t finish. “Trust me, I don’t want to mess up my shoulder any more than it already is.”

She smiles a little. “That’s very practical of you.”

Jemma’s clearly worried, not to mention exhausted. There are dark circles under her eyes and blood that probably belongs to him smeared on her cheek. She looks like she’s just waiting for her world to collapse in on itself. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, doesn’t light up her face the way it usually does, and that honestly might hurt more than getting shot.

He cups her face in his hands and kisses her gently, because he can’t _not_.

“We’re gonna find Coulson,” he promises. “We’re gonna get him back, and we’re gonna tear Centipede apart.”

“I know we will,” she says quietly.

“Okay, enough with the mushy stuff,” Skye interjects. “Come on, we have to get back to the Bus.”

Grant rolls his eyes at Jemma, earning a slightly brighter smile, and steps back to let her climb into the van ahead of him. Skye follows him in, closing the door behind her, and Fitz pulls away from the curb as soon as the door latches into place.

“So you didn’t sound too happy about working with Agent Hand,” Skye observes. “Not a friend of yours, I take it?”

“You could say that,” he repeats. “Last time I saw her, she was ordering me into South Ossetia.”

“Wait,” Jemma says slowly. “You mean she’s the agent—”

“Who sent us into hostile territory with no extraction plan,” he finishes. “Yeah. That’s the one.”

“Well,” Fitz says from the driver’s seat. “That’s just…bloody perfect.”

And that pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, just to give you a heads up about what's coming: there **might** be a side story posted after chapter eleven. I haven't decided whether or not I want to write that one; we'll see whether I get inspired. However, there will **definitely** be a side story posted after chapter twelve; it's from Jemma's POV and very relevant to the events of chapter thirteen.
> 
> Thanks again for reading! I hope you enjoyed!


	11. The Magical Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson is missing. Victoria Hand is running the rescue op. Grant honestly isn't sure which is worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you for all the comments and kudos! They really are excellent motivation. 
> 
> I don't think I actually have anything else to say for this chapter, except maybe that I'm sorry it got so long. Not as long as some other chapters, true, but certainly longer than I planned, considering how little screen time Ward has in this episode. Sorry!
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Oddly enough, the gunshot wound comes in handy.

Victoria Hand’s presence tests Grant’s control like nothing but Jemma being attacked has before. Every time he sees her face or hears her voice he remembers that mission in South Ossetia—the moment he realized there was no extraction coming, Fitz refusing to leave, the two of them surrounded by enemy agents with no way out—and more than once he has to fight the urge to just pull out his sidearm and shoot her.

It’s a little disturbing, to have May’s techniques fail him after serving him so well the last few weeks, but his rage against Hand is just too strong. Part of the problem, he thinks, is that he _wants_ to shoot her. It makes it harder to keep his grip on his rage when it’s urging him to do something that he’s completely in favor of.

Therefore, he falls back to a different technique, and this is where the gunshot wound proves helpful. He’s refused all of the heavy duty drugs Jemma has offered, which means that whenever he moves his arm or turns his head, he’s hit with a new wave of pain. And if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s use his pain. So every time he feels his control slipping, he just rolls his shoulder, and he’s able to use the pain as a focus to get the rage back under control.

He thinks May knows what he’s up to; she keeps giving him these _looks_ every time he does it, but she hasn’t said anything, which he’s taking to mean she approves—or at least understands.

Of course, the gunshot wound has its drawbacks, too. Notably the fact that it limits his range of motion; if he doesn’t want to tear his stitches, he has to be careful of how he moves his left arm. This is a serious imposition in the field, as demonstrated by the events of the third raid he, May, and the various field agents Victoria Hand brought with her carry out.

It’s been twenty-four hours since the incident on the bridge, and they’re on the trail of Victor Vanchat. Vanchat is a black-market dealer, a man who’s made a very lucrative career out of selling alien objects. Grant’s gone after him before, and he’s not the only one, but thus far SHIELD hasn’t been able to capture him. This time they have serious motivation, however—the Centipede device is made of metal of Chitauri origin, and the most likely source for that metal is Vanchat. Finding Vanchat means finding Centipede, or so they hope.

Unfortunately, Vanchat’s not an easy man to find. They’re already raided two of his known safehouses, finding plenty of information about Vanchat’s dealings but no sign of the man himself. The second safehouse led them to their current location, a converted factory in Miami, and once again there’s no sign of Vanchat.

There is, however, plenty of security, and this is where Grant’s wound works against him. He has plenty of practice fighting wounded, so he manages well enough, but his exhaustion is beginning to catch up with him. Eventually his limited range of motion, combined with his need to protect his injured shoulder, makes him sloppy.

He’s facing off against one of Vanchat’s hired guns, and this one seems smarter than the rest; he’s obviously picked up on the way Grant is favoring his left shoulder, and aims all of his hits there. Grant ducks under a punch, aims one of his own, kicks the guy in the stomach, dodges a thrown chair…then he blocks a punch with his right arm and throws one with his left, and that’s where things go wrong.

The left hook is perfectly aimed—it connects with the hired gun’s temple and knocks him right out—but Grant is running on adrenaline, two days without sleep, and a lot of pain, so his form is horrible. When his fist makes impact, there’s an unfortunately familiar popping sensation and a sharp spike of pain.

Perhaps it’s a mark of his exhaustion, but his first thought is that if he just broke something, Jemma’s never going to let him hear the end of it.

\---

Back on the Bus an hour later, Jemma tsks disapprovingly.

“It appears as though you’ve a break in the fourth metacarpal,” she says, examining the x-ray of his hand. “Or a brawler’s fracture, as it’s more commonly known. How on earth did you manage this?”

Her disbelief is no surprise, considering how much time he spent showing her how to throw a good punch. Not to mention the repetitive drills he’s put Skye through as punishment for not maintaining the proper form during strength training.

“Long day?” he offers in defense.

Her look speaks volumes on what she thinks about that excuse, and he shrugs. Then he bites his tongue to keep from swearing, because shrugging is a _really bad idea_ right now.

“What am I going to do with you?” she asks, shaking her head and turning away. She crosses the room to pull open a drawer, and he tries to think of something witty to say while she digs through it.

Honestly, he’s got nothing. It’s been twenty-five hours since the incident, now, and added to the sixteen hours he’d been awake _before_ the incident, it’s been forty-one hours since Grant last slept. He’s exhausted. He’s in pain. And he’s trying really, really hard not to think about the elephant in the room.

“Grant?” Jemma asks, and he’s startled to find her standing in front of him again.

“Yeah, sorry,” he says. “Just…thinking.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go. “Hold out your hand, please.”

He complies, and she splints his hand—specifically, the third and fourth fingers—and wrist. It’s a reusable splint, designed to allow movement, and he flexes his hand carefully.

“There,” she says, watching the action. “That should do well enough for field work, don’t you think?”

“You’re not gonna try and convince me not to go back out?” he asks, honestly surprised.

Jemma sighs and strips off her gloves.

“You wouldn’t listen anyway,” she points out. She doesn’t sound angry, though. More sympathetic. “And, honestly…I meant what I said last night. Knowing you’re involved with the search for Agent Coulson makes me feel better.”

He nearly winces at the mention of the topic he’s been avoiding thinking about, but manages to hold it back and smile at her instead.

“Thank you,” he says, and leans forward to kiss her. He keeps it brief, mindful of the presence of the other scientists, and pulls away much sooner than he’d like. “What about you? How’s your work going?”

Jemma and Fitz are working on finding a way to counteract the Centipede serum. They know from the ambush at the factory that the night-night pistol won’t work on a Centipede soldier who’s _not_ about to explode, and the two of them are determined to give him and May a decent weapon against the enemy.

“Not well,” she sighs, stepping back so he has room to slide off the table he’s sitting on. “So far we have nothing. And even if we do stumble upon a solution, it’s all theoretical anyway. In absence of a test subject…”

He doesn’t like the dejected look on her face, so he tugs lightly on the end of her ponytail. The resulting smile is small, but it’s better than nothing. He’ll call that a victory.

A glance at the monitor, set to display the feed from the briefing room, shows that Hand’s gathering a crowd again.

“You’ll figure it out,” he says. “In the meantime, are you in the mood for another briefing?”

Jemma glances at the monitor and rolls her eyes.

“I think I’ll skip this one, thank you,” she says. “Fill me in later?”

“Of course,” he agrees. He tugs on her ponytail again, earning a slightly larger smile this time, and then leaves the lab.

He’ll say this much for Hand’s agents: they’ve all been properly respectful of the fact that this isn’t their turf. As soon as he enters the briefing room, they make a space for him at the holocom. He doesn’t even have to raise an eyebrow, they just do it. It’s just a shame their boss isn’t so accommodating—Hand has made it clear that she’s in charge, and the team will only be involved for as long as she’s willing to allow.

To be fair, the whole reason HQ sent Hand was because they need a Level Eight agent to run the op, but…whatever. She left Fitz and Grant to die in the middle of a warzone, he doesn’t _have_ to be fair.

The briefing basically reiterates what they already have, which is _nothing_. They’ve got yet another possible location for Vanchat, but it’s in Hong Kong, so a local team is being sent to check it out. Hand promises an update in an hour, then dismisses the briefing, and Grant heads for his bunk. He doesn’t usually spend much time there, aside from sleeping, but right now the Bus is so crowded that his bunk is the only place Grant can be assured of privacy.

Skye’s waiting for him outside of it, which isn’t exactly a surprise. As a consultant, she doesn’t even have Level One security clearance, and Hand has made it clear that she’s not welcome in any briefings. Which means she’s taken to hanging around while the briefings are happening, waiting to accost whichever members of the team she can find.

“Any word on Coulson?” she asks.

“Not yet,” he says, keeping his face blank through sheer force of will. “We’ve got another briefing in an hour.”

“Great,” Skye mutters. “I’ll just…wait out here, then.”

“You do that,” he agrees, and enters his bunk. He slides the door closed behind him and takes a seat on the edge of his bed. The tie he wore yesterday to speak with Brian Hayward’s sister seems to mock him from where it’s hanging on the closet doorknob.

“Shut up,” he says. Then he shakes his head and runs his good hand over his face, because really? He’s talking to clothes now?

He’s spent the past twenty-five hours trying very hard not to think of Coulson. Unfortunately, considering the fact that they’re in the middle of attempting to rescue the man, it’s not really working.

When they went to that bridge last night, it was with the intention of handing Peterson over in exchange for the man’s son. Grant knew that Peterson would suffer in Centipede’s hands, and he was willing to allow it. Hell, he was already trying to figure out a way to prolong it, a way to delay the rescue op so that the scientists would have longer with Peterson. Longer to try and find Garrett’s cure. Leaving Peterson at the hands of those scientists wouldn’t have bothered him at all. He wouldn’t have felt anything, except maybe hope for a cure.

When it’s Coulson, though? He does feel something. Something very close to guilt. It sits like a lump in his throat, choking him when he tries to breathe, and he’s been working so hard to ignore it, but…

Saving Garrett’s life is the goal. It’s the whole reason he’s on the team at all, to learn how Coulson was brought back from the dead so that he and Garrett can use whatever it was to save Garrett’s life. The fact that Garrett has kidnapped Coulson means that something’s changed.

The most likely reason to kidnap Coulson is to get the truth of his survival straight from the source. To _torture_ it straight from the source, since obviously asking nicely won’t get Coulson to share SHIELD secrets. If Garrett feels the need to do that, instead of waiting for Grant to discover the information, the way they planned…his condition must be worsening. It’s the only explanation.

Garrett saved Grant’s life. More than that, he saved Grant’s sanity. He pulled him out of hell and gave him direction that he was sorely lacking. Grant owes Garrett everything, and he’s sworn to do anything that’s necessary in order to save Garrett’s life.

Even allow a man he’s come to respect to be tortured.

He lies down on his good side, staring at the door and trying to ignore the way his pillow smells like Jemma. Or, more accurately, trying to ignore the _reason_ his pillow smells like Jemma: because she’s been sleeping in his bed every night. The only way that’s been possible is Coulson’s willingness to defy regulations—first in allowing them to remain on the team together, and then in turning a blind eye to their blatant violation of the rules _he_ laid out for them.

If not for Coulson, Grant wouldn’t be even half as close to Jemma as he is now.

And speaking of Jemma…

He’s been justifying his purpose on the team with the fact that his whole goal is to save Garrett’s life. He hates to be less than honest with Jemma, but he’s told himself, again and again, that she would approve. The whole reason she joined SHIELD in the first place is to save lives; surely, he’s been thinking, she wouldn’t begrudge him a little bit of spying in the name of saving the life of the closest thing he’s got to a father.

But torture? Jemma wouldn’t approve of torture. Not of strangers, and certainly not of a man she respects the way she does Coulson. If she were to find out that Grant was involved in Coulson’s kidnapping, even tangentially…

She’d never forgive him.

No. He’s being ridiculous. He hasn’t _betrayed_ anyone. He had nothing to do with Coulson’s kidnapping, and he has no way of finding him. He doesn’t even know where to begin looking. All he can do is exactly what he would be doing if he _didn’t_ have inside information: follow Vanchat’s trail. The only thing he’s holding back is the knowledge that Garrett is the Clairvoyant, and no one could possibly blame him for protecting his mentor.

There’s no reason to feel guilty.

\---

The team in Hong Kong finds nothing except documents that lead them to yet another safehouse. Grant is starting to suspect they’re being deliberately led in circles—he has plenty of safehouses of his own, and he, personally, is not in the habit of leaving anything in any one of them that could direct someone to the rest—but it’s all they’ve got.

The newest safehouse is in Atlanta, only two hours from their current location, so Hand decides that they should investigate it personally. Even though it’s probably useless, Grant is all too happy to comply. He’s not suited to inactivity; standing around waiting for developments is one of the worst parts of field work, as far as he’s concerned.

He stops by the lab before they leave, where he finds Jemma and Fitz in the midst of a heated debate about dendrotoxin dosages. He doesn’t really have the time to spare, but he still stands there for a few minutes to watch them. They’re both obviously flagging, having been awake for nearly forty hours at this point, but he knows it would be useless to try and send them to bed. Still, he makes a mental note to drag them upstairs to eat at some point; they need _something_ to bolster them, or eventually they’ll just faint from exhaustion.

“Oh, Grant, hello,” Jemma says when she finally notices him. “Did you need something? Painkillers, perhaps?”

He smiles a little at that; Jemma is not impressed by his refusal to take anything stronger than ibuprofen, and her continuing efforts to convince him to accept a narcotic painkiller are kind of adorable. If nothing else, he has to admire her persistence.

“No thanks,” he says. “Just wanted to let you know we’re heading back out.”

“Really?” Fitz asks. “Another safehouse?”

“Yep.”

“Do you think you’ll find anything?” Jemma asks.

“Doubtful,” he admits. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

Jemma and Fitz exchange displeased looks.

“At least he’s honest,” Fitz grumbles.

“Don’t give up yet,” he tells them. “We’re gonna do everything we can for Coulson.”

“Damn right you are,” Fitz mutters, and then turns away.

“Do me a favor while I’m gone,” Grant says to Jemma. “Go upstairs and eat something.”

“We don’t have time for that,” she protests, indicating her cluttered workspace. “We still haven’t determined—”

“Jemma,” he interrupts. “When was the last time you ate?”

Her eyes go to the ceiling as she considers the question, and he shakes his head.

“If you don’t know, it’s definitely been too long,” he says. “And if Fitz’s mood is any indication, his blood sugar’s getting low.”

She sighs. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just…”

“I know,” he assures her when she trails off. “It’s not easy to give time to the small things when you’re trying to save someone’s life. But you need to take care of yourself.”

“I will if you will,” she says with a pointed look at his shoulder. “Be careful. Don’t get shot again.”

“No promises.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, so he just kisses her quickly and leaves.

\---

Grant’s pretty sure that a man like Vanchat, who’s been successfully avoiding SHIELD’s grasp since the Battle of New York, isn’t stupid enough to leave important information lying around where just anyone could find it. He’s positive that the trails they’ve been following from safehouse to safehouse are just a trick—a way to keep them busy while Vanchat goes to ground. So going in to Atlanta, he’s convinced that this raid will be just a big a waste of time as the first three.

He’s never been happier to be proven wrong. (Well, except for that time in Tbilisi, but that’s another matter entirely.)

As it happens, the safehouses aren’t a trap; Vanchat really _is_ stupid enough to keep important information in them, and they hit pay dirt in the safehouse in Atlanta. They find an actual, honest-to-god datebook in the kitchen, and it’s the first real break they’ve gotten.

Vanchat has a meeting with a buyer in Pittsburgh… _today_.

Hand wastes no time; the Bus starts to take off before the cargo bay door is even completely closed behind the returning strike team, and he goes upstairs to find her already in the middle of yet another briefing. May’s absent, busy flying the Bus, but Jemma and Fitz are in attendance, while Skye waits in the lounge, all but vibrating with impatience.

“Agent Ward,” Hand says when he enters the briefing room. “Good work. This is exactly what we’ve been waiting for.”

Her persistence in acting like she didn’t basically sentence him to death the last time they met is really getting on his nerves, but he rolls his shoulder and forces it down. He nods in acknowledgement of her praise as he takes his place next to Jemma at the holocom, and Hand returns to the briefing.

“Vanchat has a meeting with this woman, Emily Deville, at 0900,” Hand says, pulling up a Pennsylvania state driver’s license. “Homeland Security’s had their eyes on her for a while—she’s a suspect in a smuggling case they’ve been trying to solve for the last five years.”

The agents share in a moment of collective smugness at SHIELD’s clear superiority to Homeland Security, and then Hand continues.

“Luckily for us, they have her under surveillance, and we were able to trace her to the most likely location for the meeting.”

Pictures and blueprints of a high-rise apartment building appear on the screen, and Grant studies them closely. It’s going to be tough to capture Vanchat inside the building—it looks to be at least thirty-five stories, which gives Vanchat a lot of places to hide if a direct assault fails. Their best bet is to corral him into an ambush, but how?

“The meeting is at 0900,” Hand reiterates. “That gives us a little under four hours to devise a plan to capture Vanchat. These blueprints have been sent to all of your devices. Look them over, come up with a strategy, and present it to me no later than 0730. I’ll read through your plans and choose the most effective. Any questions?”

There aren’t.

“Keep in mind that we need Vanchat in one piece,” Hand says. “And we want to minimize the risk to civilians. Other than that, feel free to be creative. Agent Coulson’s life is on the line, here.”

On that cheery note, Hand leaves the room, apparently finished briefing them. Her agents file out after her, leaving Grant, Jemma, and Fitz alone. At least for the two seconds it takes Skye to realize the briefing is over and join them.

“Well?” she asks.

“We’ve got a lead,” Grant says, indicating the blueprints that are still on the screen. “Vanchat has a meeting with a buyer in Pittsburgh in four hours. We’re going to take him in.”

“Finally,” Skye groans. Then she narrows her eyes. “Wait. When you say _we_ …?”

“Apparently Agent Hand is open to suggestions as to how to accomplish our goal,” Jemma tells her. “We’re to devise a strategy and present it to her for consideration by 7:30.”

“Okay,” Skye says. “Devise a strategy. Right. I’m on it.”

She stares at the blueprints for a long moment, then shakes her head.

“Yeah, I got nothing. Ward?”

He pulls up the building specs and reads them quickly. Forty-two floors, two elevators, three sets of stairs, multiple points of egress, and all of those windows are going to be a problem, since Deville has a front-facing apartment—because if Vanchat looks out the window at the wrong minute and sees a troop of men in tactical gear entering the building, he’ll definitely get spooked. They’ll have to take it easy on personnel to reduce the risk of tipping off Vanchat, but that _increases_ the risk that Vanchat slips past their net.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he says finally. “Obviously, our best chance is to interrupt the deal, take him by surprise and subdue him in Deville’s apartment. But we’ll need a back-up plan, in case he gets by us, and for that…”

He studies the blueprints again. They need to minimize civilian casualties, which means they can’t afford to confront him in the halls. There’s too much risk of Vanchat kicking a door in and taking one of the residents hostage. Optimally, he’d like to confront Vanchat on the roof—there’s room to land a helicopter there, so they could fly in back-up without arousing suspicion—but how to get him there? Vanchat may not be as smart as Grant thought he was (Exhibit A: leaving his datebook lying around an unsecured safehouse), but he’s not stupid enough to aim for anything but the first floor when trying to escape.

“For that?” Fitz prompts after a few minutes.

Grant’s about to say that he’s open to suggestions when his eyes fall on the building specs again. The elevator goes all the way to the top floor, which has roof access, and that gives him an idea.

“Hey, Skye,” he says. “You ever hacked an elevator?”

“No, of course not, that’s ridiculous,” she laughs nervously. “Why?” Her face drops. “Who have you been talking to?”

He’s going to take that as a yes. “The best place for an ambush is the roof. If we can somehow herd Vanchat into the elevator, could you hack it and send him to the top floor?”

“Probably,” she says, apparently realizing she’s not fooling anyone. “I mean, I’d have to take a look at the system, but…Yeah. It’s really not that hard.”

“What isn’t?” May asks as she enters the room.

“Hacking an elevator,” Skye answers. At May’s raised eyebrow, she hurriedly continues, “It was Ward’s idea!”

Grant rolls his eyes and fills May in on Hand’s orders.

“You’re thinking the roof for an ambush?” she asks, looking over the blueprints with a practiced eye.

“That work for you?”

“It’s a good back-up plan,” May says. “What’s your primary?”

“The two of us cause a distraction, then storm the apartment before Vanchat and his bodyguards can recover,” Grant says bluntly. “It’s risky, but we can’t afford to send too many people in.”

“Uh,” Skye raises her hand. “Why not?”

“Windows,” May tells her, indicating the placement of Deville’s apartment on the blueprints. “Deville’s apartment overlooks the front entrance. Vanchat looks through the window at the wrong moment and the whole op is blown before it begins.”

“Oh.”

“What sort of distraction were you planning?” Jemma asks.

Grant shrugs his good shoulder. “Hadn’t gotten that far.”

“Well, if I may make a suggestion?”

“Let’s hear it,” he invites.

“A flash frisbee.”

Grant exchanges a look with May. They’re in agreement; the flash frisbee is a perfect distraction for this situation. The flash from a flash frisbee will easily fill the entire room, disabling not just Vanchat and Deville but also any bodyguards they might have. And, depending on how thick the building’s carpeting is, they might be able to just slide it under the door.

“That’s perfect,” he says. “Good idea.”

“The what?” Skye asks at the same time.

“It’s basically a larger and flatter version of the standard flash grenade,” Fitz tells her. “Roughly the size and shape of a frisbee.”

“Thus the name,” Skye guesses. “Cool.”

“We invented them,” Jemma supplies helpfully.

“Of course you did,” Skye says. “Just out of curiosity, do SHIELD agents use anything you _didn’t_ invent?”

Jemma and Fitz look at each other, then back at Skye.

“The Bus,” Jemma says.

“Cars,” Fitz continues.

“Mobile phones.”

“Computers.”

“The internet.”

“Those little—”

“Okay,” Skye interrupts loudly. “Very funny.”

“We thought so,” Jemma agrees.

Grant can’t help smiling, just a little, while Jemma, Fitz, and Skye playfully argue over the exact definition of the word ‘funny’. But the light moment can’t last, not with Coulson’s absence so glaringly obvious, and they return quickly to their planning.

“Okay, so Plan A is send in the frisbee, kick the asses of everyone in the apartment, and bring in Vanchat,” Skye sums up. “Plan B is to get Vanchat into the elevator, which I then send up to the top floor. How do we get him in the elevator?”

“The DWARFs,” Fitz suggests, enlarging the blueprint. “If we have them waiting in the corridor here—”

“And activate their search lights to blind Vanchat,” Jemma continues. “He’ll try to avoid them—”

“Which will send him in the other direction,” Fitz finishes. “Away from the stairwell and straight to the lift.”

“We’ll block off the stairwell doors on the top floor,” Grant decides. “Which leaves the roof as his only option.”

“Sounds like our strategy is devised,” Skye observes. “So, who gets to present it to Agent Abandonment?”

It’s telling that no one, not even May, reprimands Skye for her disrespect. Grant’s not the only one holding a grudge.

“Fitz and I need to return to the lab,” Jemma says.

“We’re still working on how to disable the bloody Centipede soldiers,” Fitz agrees. “We don’t have time for paperwork.”

“Well I can’t do it,” Skye argues. “I have to look into hacking this elevator.”

“I’ll do it,” Grant says reluctantly. It only makes sense, as he has literally nothing else to do, but he doesn’t have to like it.

“Great,” Skye says. “Have fun!”

She leaves quickly, apparently worried that he’s about to change his mind and saddle her with the paperwork. May follows her out, presumably headed back to the cockpit, while Fitz and Jemma loiter at the holocom.

“Do you think Agent Hand will allow Skye’s involvement?” Jemma asks. “Thus far, she’s been very reluctant to acknowledge Skye’s place on our team.”

“Skye’s the only hacker we’ve got,” Grant points out. “And Hand’s very practical, if nothing else. She’s willing to bend the rules when the reward makes the risk acceptable.”

“Yeah, we’ve got plenty of experience in her idea of acceptable risks,” Fitz mutters. Grant claps him on the back, sympathetic. He knows he’s not the only one who’s struggling with Hand’s presence—just the only one contending with alien-enhanced anger management issues.

“Yes,” Jemma agrees quietly. “I much prefer Agent Coulson’s method of breaking protocol.”

There’s really nothing to say to that, so Jemma and Fitz excuse themselves and leave for the lab. Grant should head to his bunk to work on drawing up their proposed plans, but instead he lingers, staring at the monitor.

It’s impossible for Grant to walk into the briefing room without being reminded of the torturous two hours he spent leaning against the holocom, watching Jemma slowly dying from the Chitauri virus. It’s never fun, but he’s learned to deal with it, to push the memories aside in order to focus on doing his job. Today is no different on that score—every time he walks into the room for one of Hand’s countless briefings, he flashes back to that horrible day. However, Jemma’s face as she desperately tried to save her own life isn’t the memory that’s haunting him today.

Instead, he keeps thinking about what Coulson did—or rather, what he failed to do. Grant spent those two hours constantly on edge, and not just because Jemma was dying. Since Jemma’s death would result in an electrostatic charge that would drop the Bus right out of the sky, protocol demanded she be thrown from the Bus before it could happen. The whole time, Grant was on edge, just waiting to cross off anyone who tried it.

But he didn’t have to, because Coulson didn’t follow protocol. He never even mentioned it, never brought it up. And Grant’s grateful for that, of course he is, but today it’s not sitting well.

Because, with the benefit of distance from that awful day, Grant can admit that there’s a good reason for that particular protocol. Of course, he would never allow it to happen (and he still hasn’t forgiven Felix Blake for trying to force the issue), but the point of following the protocol wouldn’t have been to murder Jemma; it would have been to save the rest of the team.

Grant never would have allowed it, but from a logical and ethical standpoint, Coulson would have had every right to throw Jemma from the Bus. To sacrifice one life in exchange for saving five others? It’s only practical. Instead, Coulson put his life and the lives of his entire team at risk, just on the off chance that Jemma could find a cure for an alien virus in two hours.

And even when they thought she failed, when they all gave up and left her to say her goodbyes to Fitz, Coulson never said a word about the need to remove her from the Bus. She did that entirely of her own volition.

Coulson wasn’t willing to sacrifice Jemma to save the rest of them. Grant’s reminded of it every time he sets foot in the briefing room, and he’s uncomfortably aware of the parallels to his current situation.

This is different, though. Of course it is. Coulson may be suffering right now—all right, he’s definitely suffering, unless he’s suddenly seen the light and decided to share the information of his own free will (unlikely)—but he’s not dead. He’s going to survive this. Grant and the team will rescue him soon enough.

Maybe sacrificing any of the team to save Garrett’s life would be wrong, but surely a few days of pain isn’t so bad? Grant’s been tortured before, several times, and while it’s certainly not an experience he’s eager to repeat…he’d do it again, to save Garrett. And Coulson and Garrett are old friends. If Coulson knew that the information he’s holding back is necessary to Garrett’s survival, he’d share it willingly. So, in the end, it all balances out. Right?

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by a chime over the intercom. Recognizing the warning for approaching turbulence, he snags his tablet and heads for the lounge. He has two plans to write up, and he may as well be comfortable while he does it. Not that he ever has any trouble keeping his feet during turbulence, but he really doesn’t want to risk jarring his shoulder.

\----

He presents the mission proposals to Hand at 0720, ten minutes before the deadline. Or, more accurately, he presents them to Hand’s second-in-command, since Hand herself is on the phone. Likely with Commander Hill, judging by the way she’s saying ‘ma’am’ every three seconds. Regardless of the reason, he’s glad for the excuse not to speak to her, and quickly makes himself scarce before she gets off the phone.

They’ve already landed at a private airstrip outside of Pittsburgh, and apparently Hand is planning to stick around after they bring in Vanchat, because they’ve been taxied into a hangar. Most of Hand’s agents have taken the opportunity to stretch their legs, so the plane is a lot emptier. Grant’s grateful for it; he doesn’t like having agents he doesn’t know hanging around his team. There’s too much risk in it.

He thinks of going down to the lab to check in on Jemma, but he doesn’t want to interrupt her work. It really is important; the Centipede soldiers at the factory kicked their asses—Peterson was the closest to being a match for them, and he got impaled, for god’s sake—and he’d really prefer to have a way of taking them down quickly. Especially on a rescue mission, as it’s safe to assume Coulson will have limited mobility.

Instead, he takes a shower. It hasn’t been that long since his last one, but he’s been awake for forty-nine hours now, and the water helps him shake off his exhaustion. He’s been awake longer than this before (that mission in Novosibirsk, for example. He was awake for five days on that mission, and by the time the op was over he was walking into walls and forgetting how to speak anything but Russian), but it’s still not an optimal state to be going into a mission in.

At this rate, he’ll be entirely useless by the time they find Coulson. Which means that regardless of the outcome of the attempt to grab Vanchat, he _has_ to sleep once they’re done. Of course, that may be difficult—he hasn’t slept without Jemma in a month, and he’s pretty sure that at this point, he _can’t_ sleep without her next to him. Unfortunately, though, he doesn’t think Hand will be as willing to turn a blind eye to bunk-sharing as Coulson is.

Speaking of Hand, he’s no sooner finished tying his boots—a little difficult, with his hand splinted the way it is—when one of her agents knocks on his door to inform him they’re about to have another briefing. He’s honestly beyond sick of Hand and her constant briefings (seriously, does she have nothing better to do?), but this one has to be about the mission they’re about to undertake.

He sincerely hopes that Hand chooses the plans he and the team made; any other plans, from Hand’s own agents, are unlikely to involve Jemma, Fitz, and Skye. Usually he prefers to keep them out of the field, but today that would mean leaving them alone on the Bus with a large number of strange agents. Agents Grant doesn’t know and therefore can’t trust with his team’s safety.

Luckily, Hand does go with their plan. She takes them through every step of both plans, and if her agents have a problem with being relegated to back-up for the back-up plan, they don’t say anything about it.

“Agent May, Agent Ward,” Hand says. “This is your plan, so I assume you don’t have any questions?”

“No, ma’am,” May agrees. “We’re clear.”

“Then go,” Hand orders. “You and your team need to leave in five to get into position in time. There’s a van waiting for you in the hangar.”

Grant’s a little uneasy about being sent out while Hand and her agents stay back, but he’s pretty sure it’s just paranoia. Just because Hand sent him into hostile territory with no extraction plan the last time they met doesn’t mean she’s plotting against him. Probably.

Still, he’ll check the feed from the briefing room when they get back. Just in case.

\---

Things work pretty much as Grant expects them to. Plan A fails, partially because one of the bodyguards gets in a lucky hit with a chair straight to Grant’s wounded shoulder, disabling him long enough for Vanchat to slip past him, but Plan B goes perfectly. The DWARFs send Vanchat running straight for the elevator, where Skye takes over and sends him to the top floor.

Vanchat surrenders on the roof, not that he has much other choice when no less than six snipers have him locked in their sights.

“Nice plan,” Hand says as her agents secure Vanchat in the helicopter. “We’ll get him to interrogation right away. With any luck, he’ll lead us straight to Centipede.”

With that, she and her agents get back into the helicopter and head for the Bus…leaving Grant and May with the clean-up. Grant alerts local police to pick up Deville and her bodyguards, who are still cuffed in the apartment, then grabs the alien device that Vanchat was selling, while May retrieves the DWARFs and unbars the stairwell doors.

They don’t stick around to wait for the police—if Deville and her men get away, it’s no concern of theirs. Instead, once they’ve collected everything, including the flash frisbee, they return to the van. May takes the driver’s seat and, after a moment of consideration, Grant climbs in the back with the others instead of joining her in the front.

“So,” Skye says brightly. “Mission accomplished.”

“Yep,” he agrees. He has to admit to a certain degree of smugness; before joining Coulson’s team, Grant was sent on six different missions to bring in Vanchat, all of which failed. All of those missions were planned by his superiors, and he thinks he’s entitled to a little pride in the fact that he’s finally managed it by using a plan of his own.

“Are you hurt?” Jemma asks, looking him over.

“Maybe,” he admits. He shifts his shoulder carefully and notes the increased pain. “One of Vanchat’s goons got me with a chair. Might’ve torn some stitches.”

Jemma looks predictably displeased. “I’ll take a look when we get back to the Bus. Anything else?”

“That’s it,” he promises.

“Agent May?” Jemma asks, raising her voice a little so May can hear her through the curtain. “Do _you_ require medical attention?”

“No,” May says simply.

“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” Jemma says. “At least one of you has some measure of self-preservation.”

He bites back a smile and puts on what he hopes is a suitably chastised expression. Maybe it’s wrong of him, but he actually gets a lot of enjoyment out of seeing her so annoyed that he’s hurt. He’s never really had anyone to care about his well-being, before. Even Garrett’s general reaction is to tell him to walk it off.

“He’s fine, Simmons, stop your fussing,” Fitz says dismissively. “We need to check the DWARFs for damage.”

“Yes, of course,” Jemma says. She gives Grant a pointed look, and he hands over the case containing the DWARFs. “I do hope they’re all right. We don’t exactly have the time to fix them at the moment.”

The two scientists pull the DWARFs out of their case and split them, inspecting them carefully.

“Doc, Sneezy, and Sleepy are undamaged,” Jemma finally declares. “Fitz?”

“The other three are fine, but Dopey took some minor damage,” Fitz says unhappily. “I’ll have to fix him when we get back to the Bus. I want to keep all of the DWARFs in working order.”

“Of course,” Jemma agrees. “We may need them to rescue Agent Coulson.”

They return the DWARFs to their box, then Jemma hands it over to Grant so he can put it next to the door. In doing so, he unfortunately draws Skye’s attention to something he was hoping no one would notice.

“What’s that?” Skye asks, indicating the silver case.

Grant holds back a wince. “It’s the Chitauri armlet Vanchat was selling.”

There’s a long moment of silence.

Finally, Jemma, looking pale, says, “We should check it over and compare its composition to that of the Centipede device. Just for confirmation.”

Grant bites down on his urge to protest. Skye does not.

“No way,” she objects. “Not happening, Simmons.”

“I don’t like it either,” Jemma admits. “But it’s the only way to confirm that we’re on the right track.”

“But why does it have to be _you_?” Skye demands. “Why can’t it be someone who _hasn’t_ already almost died because of Chitauri stuff?”

“Yes, good idea,” Fitz agrees. He’s looking a little pale, too. “It doesn’t _need_ to be you, Simmons.”

“Who, then?” Jemma asks. “Because it’s certainly not going to be _you_.”

“Seconded,” Skye says at once. “Let’s just call the Chitauri thing a FitzSimmons-free zone, okay?”

“We’ll get Kob and his lot to look at it,” Fitz resolves, referring to the scientists Hand brought with her from the Hub. “They have to be good for something.”

“Works for me,” Skye agrees. “Ward? That work for you?”

“Sounds good,” he says, relieved. He honestly doesn’t care if they hand the armlet over to the Queen of England, for god’s sake, just as long as Jemma and Fitz aren’t the ones to look at it.

\---

His stitches are indeed torn, and Jemma replaces them while Fitz sees to Dopey. Grant’s sure there’s a joke in there somewhere, but he’s been awake for fifty-two hours, so he thinks he can be excused for not being able to come up with it.

Jemma’s just finishing up his stitches when Agent Kob returns with the results of the tests he ran on the Chitauri armlet. It is, in fact, a match for the Centipede device, which means they’re on the right track to find Coulson.

There’s no time to celebrate, though. Hand’s already holding another briefing, and once Grant gets his shirt back on, he leads the way upstairs.

As expected, it’s a waste of time. The only information Hand shares in the briefing that they didn’t already know is that her interrogator is working on Vanchat, and even that they could easily have guessed.

Also expected is that Skye gets caught hacking the system. She’s of the opinion that they’ll find Coulson by following Vanchat’s money, while Hand is of the opinion that Skye is untrustworthy and therefore better seen than heard—except she doesn’t want her seen, either.

Grant sticks up for Skye. He doesn’t think that should surprise anyone. For one thing, the money trail is a perfectly logical approach to take. For another, Skye is a member of his team, while Hand is the woman who left him and Fitz to die. He’ll back Skye over Hand any day. He’d back _Rumlow_ over Hand, and he hates that guy.

What _is_ surprising is that May backs Hand. She suggests that they should increase Skye’s restriction level, confiscate her tech, and then deliver her for debrief. Hand, naturally, finds that a very favorable option, and gives the order immediately.

Skye is understandably upset. She asks, rather rudely, for a moment alone to pack her things, and Hand allows it.

Grant excuses himself as soon as Skye’s door slides closed. There’s not a lot of time for planning, but Skye might be their best chance for finding Coulson, and he can’t let her be taken in for debriefing. She’ll be no use to them locked up in a SHIELD base.

\---

“It’s clear that May has an axe to grind with me,” Skye says as they descend the stairs, twenty minutes later. “But that was _way_ out of line.”

“No one knows what’s in May’s head except May,” he tells her. “Don’t worry; Coulson will make this right when he gets back.”

“I can find him, Ward,” Skye whispers.

He glances at Jemma and Fitz, approaching from the lab, and lowers his voice. “I believe you. I’ve seen first-hand what you can do, even without SHIELD resources.”

Then he steps back so Jemma and Fitz can join them. They’ve got a sat phone for Skye, specially shielded to delay the tracking bracelet’s effect—long enough for Skye to make one call. Grant’s more than a little impressed that they managed to make that in the twenty minutes since he informed them that Skye was getting taken off the Bus.

Skye is less impressed, but that’s just because she’s about to spend three days getting debriefed. Or so she thinks.

“That’s right,” Grant agrees. “A few agents are coming here to pick you up for debriefing.” He looks around, checking how close Hand’s people are, and lowers his voice again. “In _exactly_ twelve minutes.”

Skye’s eyes widen.

“Good luck,” he finishes. Then he leaves, heading upstairs while Jemma and Fitz return to the lab. He’s confident in Skye’s ability to slip out unnoticed, and he’ll need an alibi while she does so.

After that, he thinks he might grab a nap. They’ll be taking off soon for the Fridge. It’s a long way away, and there’s nothing he can do while they’re in flight. Might as well get some sleep while he can.

\---

He manages to catch a few hours of sleep, and wakes to find that Hand’s interrogator has yet to get anything from Vanchat. Considering how long he’s had, Grant’s not impressed, and he decides to take a look at the security feed and check out the guy’s method.

He could say that he does so in the lab because the bigger monitor gives him a better view, but honestly, he just wants to be near Jemma. He didn’t sleep at well without her there—he kept waking up, convinced that something terrible had happened—and being in the same room as her helps ease his tension.

She and Fitz seem to be making a bit of progress, so he doesn’t interrupt their work, just goes straight to the monitor and pulls up the security feed from the Cage. What he sees does not impress him. At all.

“What’s this guy doing?” he demands of Jemma and Fitz. “Lulling Vanchat to sleep?” There’s really only one thing to do. “I’m going in.”

Inspiration strikes three steps out of the lab, and he immediately turns around and goes back in.

“That was quick,” Jemma says. “Did you change your mind?”

“No, I had an idea,” he tells her. “How would you two like to help me with the interrogation?”

The quicker they break Vanchat, the better. Torture’s a viable option, but there’s no telling how long it would take. And, on a purely selfish level, he’d really prefer not to let Jemma see that side of him. So he’ll save it for Plan B.

It’s not necessary, though, because this time Plan A works perfectly. Grant secures himself in the jump seat, gives a nod to the security camera, and Jemma and Fitz open the airlock. Vanchat, clinging desperately to the table in order to avoid getting sucked out of the plane, is all too happy to promise _anything_ , including the names of all of his buyers.

\---

He gives Vanchat’s list to Hand, and she sends it out to SHIELD, which responds quickly. Within the hour, there are SHIELD strike teams running raids all of Vanchat’s buyers. After dropping Vanchat at the Fridge (and picking up even _more_ agents), the Bus is now headed for Sydney. One of Vanchat’s largest buyers has a warehouse there, which the team—or more accurately, Grant, May, and Hand’s agents—will be raiding in hopes of finding Coulson.

Except Grant gets the impression, during the briefing, that Hand is more concerned with taking down Centipede than rescuing Coulson. It’s an impression that’s quickly reinforced when she asks for a moment after she dismisses them.

First she asks if they have a problem. He’s very tempted to say that yes, as a matter of fact, he dislikes being sent into hostile territory and left to die, but manages to squash the urge. As much as he hates her, Hand outranks him, and mouthing off to her will probably only get him kicked off the Bus.

Instead, he excuses his actions (going behind her back to question Vanchat) as simple expediency. She doesn’t look convinced, but accepts the answer and moves on to discussing Coulson.

She says that the response (raids all over the world and constant requests for updates from SHIELD leadership, for example) is entirely unprecedented for a Level Eight agent, and while she’s not wrong, her tone gets his back up.

“Frankly, I don’t understand it,” she says. “No single agent is that important.”

“Coulson is,” he disagrees. He even mostly believes it. Although, to be honest, he’d disagree with Hand if she said the sky was blue.

Hand looks unconvinced. “Maybe. Well, that was all, Agent Ward. You’re dismissed.”

He nods in acknowledgement and leaves the briefing room, flexing his broken hand as he does. He really, really, _really_ does not like that woman. At all.

In the lounge, he finds Fitz pacing and muttering to himself. Fitz has been in a mood for the past two days, which Grant doesn’t think is just because their boss is missing. He’s been meaning to find a moment to talk to him, and this seems like the perfect opportunity.

“Hey,” he says, taking a seat on the couch. “What’s wrong?”

“Simmons,” Fitz grumbles. “She refuses to allow us to raise the dendrotoxin doses to fatal levels.”

“And you want to?” Grant asks, a little surprised.

“We need to put the Centipede soldiers down and keep them down,” Fitz says. “If the dosage isn’t lethal, there’s a chance they’ll metabolize it quickly enough to compromise the rescue mission. Crossing them off is the safest option, but Simmons refuses to accept it.”

That, on the other hand, is not at all surprising. “The soldiers _are_ being controlled. They’re victims here, too.”

“That’s what Simmons said, but they took Coulson,” Fitz says. “So, to be honest, I don’t care.”

“Fair enough.”

“You don’t have a problem with it, do you?” Fitz demands.

“No,” Grant admits. “But I’m a specialist. Violence is my job. Jemma joined SHIELD to save lives, remember?”

“Well she should be worried about Coulson’s life, then,” Fitz snaps. “This is no time for her bloody pacifism.”

Oh, yeah, there’s definitely something going on here. Grant can’t even remember the last time Fitz said something unkind about Jemma—not so seriously, at least. The two of them snip at each other all the time, when they’re not busy finishing each other’s sentences and acting like they share a brain, but Fitz sounds genuinely angry at her.

“What else?” Grant asks.

“What?”

“What else is bothering you?” he clarifies.

“Wh—no, there’s nothing,” Fitz stammers.

“Come on,” Grant says. “You’ve been snapping at everyone all day. What’s going on?”

Fitz huffs and looks away. Grant waits.

“It’s Hand, all right?” Fitz finally says, throwing himself into a chair. “I keep thinking about that bloody mission she sent us on.”

Grant…probably should have guessed that. Actually, now that he thinks of it, Fitz made a comment about Hand earlier today, didn’t he? He vaguely recalls something like that. In his defense, it’s been a really long few days, but…wow. He’s really not on top of his game, here. Which makes handling this conversation difficult; he’s not good at comforting people on his best of days, which this definitely isn’t.

“So do I,” he admits eventually.

“Really?” Fitz asks.

“Absolutely,” he says. “Every time I see her. Which, thanks to all those briefings…”

“Every five minutes,” Fitz mutters, disgusted. “Like we’ve got nothing better to do than listen to _her_ talk. Acting like she didn’t send us to our bloody _deaths_.”

Grant huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s getting old. She just asked me if I had a problem with her.”

Fitz stares at him. “If—you—of course you have a bloody problem, she nearly got us killed!”

“And you have _no_ idea how tempting it was to point that out,” Grant tells him.

This commences a bashing session, the likes of which Grant hasn’t participated in since once of his instructors at the Academy failed an entire class because _one_ of them failed to complete the obstacle course in less than three minutes. They spend nearly ten minutes ripping apart every decision Hand has made in the last two days, mocking every word, and complaining about the little things she does that irritate them. Grant finds it very cathartic.

It seems to help Fitz, too—by the time he leaves to return to the lab, he looks a lot less upset. If nothing else, he appears to be cheered by the fact that he’s not the only one who hates Hand for what she did.

Grant’s still exhausted, and it’s a long flight to Sydney. He thinks he might try to get some more sleep, even though that didn’t go so well earlier. First, though, he wants a word with May, so he heads to the cockpit.

He has a pretty good idea of why May suggested Skye be removed from the Bus, but it can’t hurt to confirm it. After all, if he’s wrong, and it really was out of some grudge May has against Skye, he needs to know about it.

He’s not wrong, though. When he asks her about it, May’s reasoning is pretty much what he’s expecting. She says Skye is no use on the plane, where all of Hand’s agents are looking over her shoulder, monitoring her moves.

“You wanted her off the plane,” Grant says. He’s relieved to know that he was right, because a grudge match between Skye and May could only end badly for everyone.

“Outside the system,” May agrees. “That’s how Skye works best.”

He nods in agreement.

“You don’t have to assume the worst of me,” she adds after a moment.

He’s about to tell her that he doesn’t, that he had already guessed her motives, but before he can, the radio activates.

“Agent May,” Hand says. “Change of plans. Sending new coordinates now. We found their helicopter at a laboratory outside the Mojave Desert.”

“Copy that,” May says. She checks one of the monitors next to her, then confirms receipt of the coordinates. She gives Grant a look. “Hang on to something.”

He’s not ashamed to follow her instructions, because a passenger jet doing a complete 180 is a very disorienting experience. And watching out the windshield as it happens does _not_ help.

As she turns the Bus, he considers the new information. They’re not at all far from the Mojave. If Coulson _is_ being held there, they could be rescuing him within the hour. He sincerely hopes that Centipede has gotten what they need from Coulson, because Grant can’t think of a way to delay the rescue.

Even if he could, would he?

…That’s not important. He _can’t_ think of a way to delay it, so it’s an entirely moot point.

“I’m going to go update Jemma and Fitz,” he tells May, shaking off his thoughts.

“I’ll come with you,” she says, engaging the auto-pilot. “Do you know if they’ve made any progress in designing a weapon to use against Centipede?”

“I think so,” he says, letting her lead the way out of the cockpit. “They were working on _something_ when I was in there an hour ago.”

“Good.”

There’s a lot of activity happening in the lounge, Hand’s agents scrambling to get ready, and Grant has to dodge more than once to avoid running into anyone. Usually he wouldn’t bother—he’s like six inches taller than _all_ of them, no one’s knocking him down—but his shoulder is still hurting and he’d like to avoid jarring it right before going into the field. (May doesn’t have to dodge at all; it appears Hand’s agents have enough sense to steer clear of the Cavalry.)

The cargo bay and lab are all but deserted—there’s no one in the cargo bay at all, and only three extra scientists in the lab.

“Ward, Agent May,” Fitz says as soon as they enter the lab. “What’s going on? All of Hand’s agents have gone.”

“And we’ve changed direction,” Jemma adds without looking up from whatever she’s working on. He recognizes the dendrotoxin injector, which seems like a good sign.

“We found the helicopter Centipede used to kidnap Coulson,” he tells them. “Just outside the Mojave Desert.”

That gets Jemma to look up.

“Really?” she asks hopefully. “Do you think…?”

“It’s a good lead,” he says. It’s no guarantee, of course, and he wants to tell her not to get her hopes up, but decides against it. After two days of searching, it just seems cruel. “What about you? Any progress?”

“Yeah,” Fitz says, holding up a screwdriver and what looks like some kind of watch. “Just finishing up. Simmons?”

“Almost…finished!” she exclaims, setting aside the dendrotoxin injector and pulling something out of a clamp. She joins them at the table while Fitz continues working.

“You’ve got a weapon for us?” May asks.

Jemma nods. “The Centipede soldiers each have a port on their delivery device to inject refills of the serum.”

“But with this injector cuff,” Fitz continues, holding it up. “We can use the port to our advantage.”

“By injecting a refined dose of dendrotoxin,” Jemma says, attaching what must be a dendrotoxin round to the cuff. “To incapacitate the soldier.”

“How’s it work?” Grant asks warily. He really hopes this isn’t going where he thinks it’s going.

“Oh,” Jemma says, motioning for him to hold out his arm. When he does, she buckles the injector cuff around his wrist. “Just simply lock it around the Centipede soldier’s forearm.”

She draws her hand away and a needle pops out of the top of the injector cuff.

“And night-night superpowers,” Fitz finishes.

He was afraid it would be something like that. “Sounds like riding a bull for eight seconds.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Fitz agrees. “It’s that simple.”

Jemma nods happily.

It’s nice to know they have so much faith in him, because this sounds basically impossible. The only time he got anywhere near the Centipede soldiers in that factory was when they were _hitting_ him. Somehow he doesn’t think they’ll be willing to stand still and let him put the injector cuff on them, no matter how nicely he asks.

He’s about to ask if they have anything more long-range, but he’s interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. Jemma reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. Judging by the panicked look that crosses her face, it’s Skye calling.

What follows is enough to have him holding back a laugh—Jemma is honestly the worst liar he’s ever seen. (Although, he does wonder what manscaping has to do with anything.) As Jemma stutters over a terrible attempt to sound casual, May orders the other three scientists out, then plucks the phone right out of Jemma’s hand.

“Skye?” she asks. “What have you found?”

She puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the lab table.

“I found Coulson,” Skye says. “Or, a lead on him. I followed the money, and, _like I said_ , it led me straight to Centipede. Turns out they bought a development in the Mojave Desert less than a month ago.”

“Well, isn’t that a coincidence,” Jemma says brightly.

“What is?” Skye asks.

“We found Centipede’s helicopter just outside the desert,” Grant tells her. “We’re on our way there now.”

“Great!” Skye says. “I’ll send you the coordinates and meet you there.” Then she scoffs. “Oh, wait, I _can’t_ send you the coordinates, because _someone_ had Hand increase my restriction level.”

May rolls her eyes. “Give them to us verbally.”

“And quickly,” Fitz suggests. “I don’t know how long the shielding against the bracelet will hold.”

“Oh, fine,” Skye grumbles.

They take down the coordinates just in time; the call cuts out when Skye’s in the middle of reaffirming that she’ll meet them there.

“Okay, we need to take this to Hand,” Grant says reluctantly. He doesn’t want to speak to her—it gets harder to control his rage every time—but if Centipede _is_ holding Coulson at this location, there’s sure to be heavy security.

May’s watch beeps and she glances at it. “I have to go land the plane.”

“The rest of us will speak to Hand,” Grant decides. Having Jemma there will help him suppress the urge to shoot Hand. Hopefully.

“Oh, wonderful,” Fitz mutters, but doesn’t actually protest.

“Um, one more thing,” Jemma says as May starts to leave. “We only had time to make one injector cuff.”

Grant and May exchange looks.

“Ward can have it,” May says, turning away. “He needs it more than I do.”

He’d be offended, but honestly, it’s true. There’s no shame in admitting to being outmatched by someone like Melinda May.

\---

Hand doesn’t believe that the development in the Mojave is more likely than the lab they’ve located nearby, and refuses to divert her strike team. May suggests they split up—Hand and the strike team to the lab, their team to the desert—and it takes all of Grant’s control not to protest.

Strategy wise, it makes perfect sense. He and May can tackle the soldiers, while Jemma gives Coulson the medical attention he’s sure to require. Then Fitz and Skye can help move him if he’s not capable of moving on his own, which seems likely. Strategically, he has no reason to protest. Emotionally…

Emotions have no place here.

“You backed my decision to kick Skye off the plane,” Hand reminds May.

“Seems like it worked out,” May says.

“Seems like you played me,” Hand counters.

“Look, this isn’t personal,” Grant tells her, although honestly, it kind of is. “But I am taking my team, and we’re gonna find Coulson. Send back-up if you want.”

He walks away toward the SUV before she can respond, and the rest of the team follows. Hand doesn’t call them back, and he’s willing to call that permission. And even if it’s not…well, better to ask forgiveness, and all that.

The drive to the coordinates Skye provided passes in a tense silence. Jemma has her heavy-duty first aid kit in her lap, and judging by the way she keeps fiddling with the latch, he has a feeling she’s worrying over what condition Coulson will be in when they find him.

_If_ they find him. He thinks that’s what weighing on everyone’s minds; this is the best lead they have for finding Coulson, and if he’s not here…

As far as the rest of the team knows, Centipede has no reason to keep Coulson alive. Grant tries not to feel too guilty about that. He mostly succeeds.

It doesn’t take long to reach the coordinates—May really floors it—and Grant tenses as a small collection of buildings comes into view. He has a brief moment to take in how run down they look, and then Skye sprints past, closely pursued by a soldier.

May mutters something in what Grant’s pretty sure is Polish, then speeds up even more.

“Hold on,” he warns Jemma and Fitz, just before they make contact with the soldier. The hood catches him right in the torso, sending him flying backwards, and they scramble out of the SUV.

“Nice timing,” Skye says, a little faintly.

“Well, you know us,” Grant shrugs, crouching to check the soldier. “Always like to make an entrance.”

The soldier’s out, but he probably won’t be for long, and Grant looks over his shoulder at Jemma.

“I forgot to ask,” he says. “Is the injector cuff a one-off, or…?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she tells him apologetically. “We intended to make several of them, but—”

“There wasn’t enough time,” Fitz finishes.

“I do have these, though,” Jemma says, digging in her pocket. She brings out a small plastic case, which she opens to reveal three syringes—containing dendrotoxin, judging by the color.

She passes him one just as the soldier starts to stir, and Grant quickly injects him in the neck. He convulses, just a little, and then goes still. A check on his pulse proves that he’s just unconscious, and Grant quickly rolls him over and handcuffs him. Not that handcuffs will hold him for long, if the dendrotoxin wears off, but it’s just stupid to leave an unsecured enemy behind.

“Good thinking,” he says, standing. Then he turns to Skye. “So, any idea where Coulson is?”

“Nope. I just got here.”

They head down what appears to be the main street, taking in the run-down buildings and weather-worn mannequins.

“Those things are inside the buildings, too,” Skye informs them. “I think this used to be a nuke testing town. You know, like in Indiana Jones.”

“I do hope that doesn’t mean that Centipede is in possession of a nuclear weapon,” Jemma murmurs.

They’re not, as far as Grant knows, and that’s probably for the best. No one wins when nukes are involved.

“Coulson’s gotta be here somewhere,” Skye says. “We need to split up.”

Jemma inhales sharply. “Or run.”

Grant turns to follow her gaze, and sees the other soldier from the factory coming out from behind a mannequin. His fury, closer to the surface than ever after two days of constant exposure to Victoria Hand, unfurls inside his chest at the sight of a super powered enemy so close to his soulmate. For once, he doesn’t push it down. To face down a Centipede soldier, he’ll need it.

“I’ll take care of him,” he says, pulling the injector cuff out of his vest.

“Are you sure?” May asks.

He looks down at the injector cuff. “I got this.”

Grant makes a run for the soldier as May orders the others to move. He has a brief moment to be grateful—the farther Jemma, Fitz, and Skye are from this guy, the better—and then he makes contact. His momentum is used against him, as the man throws him into the side of a building. He ignores the pain that spikes in his shoulder, throws a punch that doesn’t faze the man, and receives a much harder one in return.

He’s quick enough to dodge the next punch, which knocks the head right off of a mannequin, and aims a kick at the back of the soldier’s knees. He stumbles, but recovers before Grant can take advantage of it, and retaliates by throwing Grant into the door of a truck, the window of which shatters from the force of impact. He rolls out of the way just in time to miss a punch that breaks through the side of the door, and opens the back door and hits the soldier with it before the man can pull his fist out of the car.

The blow dazes the soldier, and Grant kicks him in the back of the knees (harder this time), and slams his head against the door when his legs buckle.

Grant pulls the injector cuff back out of his vest, but the soldier recovers quicker than he expected, and he has to dodge another punch. He gets thrown against the hood of the vehicle, falls to the ground, and then has to roll away as the soldier throws the damaged door at him. He hasn’t even started to get to his feet when the soldier grabs the back of his vest and throws him through a wall.

This isn’t working. There’s no way he can lock the cuff around this guy’s wrist, not without getting his head knocked off in the process. Time for Plan B.

He charges at the soldier and throws another punch, which the man dodges easily, and gets flipped over the man’s shoulder for his efforts. The landing jars his shoulder, badly, but he doesn’t have time to get his breath back, because he has to roll away from a ground-shaking punch. This gives him the opportunity he needs, though, and he quickly pulls the dendrotoxin round from the injector cuff. As the soldier rears back for another punch, Grant shoves the round into his mouth, kicks him in the face, and then rolls into a crouch.

It works perfectly; blue lines trace out from the soldier’s lips—also now blue—and he jerks a bit and then falls backwards.

There’s no time for Grant to catch his breath.

“Now, Coulson,” he mutters to himself. “Where the hell are you?”

He handcuffs the soldier, just in case, and then leaves in search of the rest of the team. He finds Jemma and Fitz outside of a nearby building, and is just opening his mouth to ask about May and Skye when he hears Skye shouting for Jemma.

That’s not a good sign.

They follow Skye’s voice to a large house and find her standing on the porch. Jemma doesn’t bother with questions, just runs past Skye into the house, and Grant follows closely.

Coulson is inside, sitting on a gurney attached to what looks a lot like an MRI machine. He’s in surprisingly good shape, considering the fact that he’s spent the past two days in the hands of people who desperately want information that he holds.

Jemma seems to disagree; she gives a little gasp of dismay and moves forward.

“Sir!” she exclaims. “What—”

“I’m fine, Simmons,” Coulson assures her.

She gives him a distinctly unimpressed look. “I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.” She looks around and sighs. “I suppose I’ll go—”

“Got it,” Fitz announces, entering the room with Jemma’s first aid kit. “Went back to the car for it.”

“Thank you, Fitz,” Jemma says, accepting it and placing it on a nearby stool. “Now, first things first. Are you having any difficulty breathing, sir?”

Grant moves away to give Coulson privacy. He joins May, who’s standing in a corner of the room and just slipping her phone back in her pocket.

“I called Hand,” she tells him before he can ask. “Back-up was already on the way. The lab was a bust.”

“No kidding,” Grant agrees.

“They’re also sending a paramedic,” she adds after a moment. “I checked.”

“Probably a good idea,” Grant agrees, glancing at Coulson. “What’s that machine?”

“No idea,” May says. “He hasn’t said much.”

Hardly surprising, but definitely inconvenient. There’s no way he can ask whether Coulson gave up the information Centipede wanted—the information needed to save Garrett’s life. Not without arousing suspicion. He’ll just have to wait and read the report.

It’s only ten minutes before they hear the sound of approaching helicopters, and May goes outside to make sure they’re friendly. After hearing that a paramedic was on the way, Jemma decided to focus on patching up Coulson’s superficial wounds, and she’s just finishing cleaning a nasty scrape above his eyebrow.

“Oh, good,” she says, relieved. “The professionals are here.”

“You are a professional,” Coulson says mildly.

“Not _that_ kind of professional,” she protests, stepping back. “And while I know this isn’t the time, I’m lodging a formal request to revisit the issue of a team medic.”

“Noted,” Coulson nods as May reenters, followed by a paramedic. “But my answer is the same.”

Jemma sighs, moving aside for the paramedic, and joins Grant in the corner.

“What about you?” she asks, looking him over. “Have you torn your stitches again?”

He rolls his shoulder carefully. “Actually, no, I don’t think so.”

“That’s something, at least,” she says quietly.

Fitz, who’s spent the last ten minutes examining the machine, now joins them, closely followed by Skye. May isn’t far behind, and the five of them stand grouped in the corner, watching as the paramedic looks Coulson over.

She has a scanner of some kind, and after holding it up to Coulson’s torso, she speaks into the radio on her shoulder. She pauses, obviously listening to a reply, then speaks again. Then she comes over to speak to them.

“Agent Coulson should be fine,” she says. “However, I am recommending a specialist be brought in to look at his heart.”

“He’s that bad?” Skye asks, clearly distressed.

“It’s just a precaution,” the paramedic soothes her. “We don’t know anything about this machine he’s been exposed to, and there’s no telling what damage it did.”

It makes sense; he did get stabbed through the heart not too long ago, and the stress alone of two days of being held hostage could probably do some serious damage. Taking a look at his heart is only sensible, really.

“Anyway,” the paramedic continues. “I’ve been instructed to tell you to remain here. Your plane will be landing shortly, and the agents on board will debrief you.”

The paramedic leaves, and the five of them return to Coulson’s side.

The reunion is predictably emotional for Jemma, Fitz, and Skye. May remains mostly stoic, and Grant’s having difficulty maintaining eye contact. He does, of course (avoiding eye-contact is too suspicious) but it’s not easy.

He reminds himself that he has nothing to feel guilty about—he didn’t know Centipede was planning on kidnapping Coulson, and he had no idea where they were keeping him. There’s nothing he could have done other than what he actually did. And Coulson’s fine. Well, he’s clearly in a lot of pain, but he’s alive. That’s more than what most people get from Centipede.

He has no reason to feel guilty. No reason at all.

\---

The debrief is mostly painless. Staying in contact with Skye when she bailed on her own debrief earlier would have gotten him in trouble if things hadn’t worked out, but they did, so it barely rates a mention. He doesn’t get in trouble at all.

Actually, he gets commended. Not just for saving Coulson, which he expected, but for bringing Jemma along. The agent in charge of his debrief expresses how impressed he is that Grant was able to put aside his emotions and bring his soulmate into such a dangerous situation.

“Your exemption was obviously well deserved,” the man comments, and Grant resists the urge to hit him.

He doesn’t even know _why_ it makes him so angry, but it does. After a moment’s thought, he dismisses it as being a function of his exhaustion, and puts his rage away easily enough. The techniques he learned from May are sufficient to handle a random agent who’s never done him any harm.

After the debrief, he gathers with the rest of the team in the lab to wait for news of Coulson, who’s upstairs with the specialist. Grant, after assuring Jemma once again that he doesn’t need medical attention, returns the injector cuff to her.

“Did it work?” she asks, accepting it. Then she looks at it and frowns. “What happened to it?”

“I couldn’t get the cuff around the guy’s wrist,” he tells her apologetically. “So I took the round off and shoved it in his mouth.”

Jemma blinks a little. “Well. How did that work?”

“Perfectly,” he says. “Sorry.”

“The important thing is that it worked,” Jemma shrugs. “Just…don’t tell Fitz. He worked very hard on designing this.”

“Deal,” he agrees, amused.

Jemma looks around for a minute, then shoves the injector cuff into a random drawer. She closes it with a little more force than necessary, and he straightens, concerned.

“I’m fine,” she says before he can ask. “Merely…exhausted.”

She leans against him, pressing her forehead against the side of his arm, and he turns to draw her into a hug.

“Me, too,” he says. “I don’t know about you, but as soon as Hand is gone, I’m going straight to bed.”

“Bed sounds lovely,” she sighs. “Though I’m not sure I can find my way there, at the moment.”

“I’ll help you,” he promises, smiling into her hair. Then, catching movement in the corner of his eye, he pulls away from her.

Raina’s at the bottom of the ramp, being held by two agents, who are receiving orders from Hand.

“Bet there aren’t any flower dresses where _she’s_ going,” Jemma mutters, apparently following his gaze.

“Amen to that, sister,” Fitz says.

Raina looks into the Bus, but not at them. Her eyes are focused higher, on the catwalk, and the reason why becomes obvious as Coulson walks down the stairs. She doesn’t get a chance to say anything, though, if she’s even got anything to say, because at that moment, Hand dismisses the agents, and Raina is led away.

Once she’s gone, Hand comes up the ramp, into the cargo bay, where she and Coulson speak briefly and exchange a handshake. Then— _finally_ —she leaves. Grant doesn’t cheer, but only because he’s so exhausted. A glance at Fitz shows he’s not alone in that sentiment.

May leads the way out of the lab, and they gather in front of Coulson, who smiles at all of them.

“I just wanna say…thank you,” he says quietly. He nods a little, makes eye contact with all of them, then smiles. “Now get back to work.”

Grant moves forward and shakes Coulson’s hand, then heads upstairs. He was expecting a little more than that—like, say, an update on Coulson’s condition—but he supposes the fact that Coulson is still here, rather than being led away to a hospital, speaks for itself. They’ve already been told they’re getting some measure of down time while Coulson recovers, but he guesses they’ll be given the exact details in the morning.

Or at least he hopes so, because he’s on his way to bed now, and he honestly might shoot anyone who tries to stop him. Except Jemma, of course. Luckily, she doesn’t seem inclined to do anything of the sort, and less than ten minutes later—after changing and brushing their teeth—they’re climbing in to bed.

Jemma laughs a little as she settles herself against him, then quickly stifles it.

“What?” he asks.

“It’s horrible of me,” she says. “But I’ve just thought—I suppose I don’t need to argue for that time off, after all.”

That _is_ kind of a morbid joke, for her, but he’ll chalk it up to her being exhausted, considering the fact that it’s now been more than two full days since she’s slept.

“I guess not,” he agrees. He lifts her wrist and presses a kiss to her timer. “So I’m meeting your parents, then?”

“You’re meeting my parents,” she agrees. “I’ll call them tomorrow to tell them about our jobs, then we’ll give them a few days to calm down before going to see them.”

“Works for me,” he says.

Jemma yawns and cuddles into his side.

“They’ll like you,” she promises drowsily.

“I’m not worried,” he claims, not entirely truthfully.

“Good,” she says around another yawn. “You don’t need to be. There’s nothing about you not to love.”

He laughs quietly to himself. If only that were true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. As I mentioned in the last chapter, there will be a side-story posted after chapter twelve. It's already halfway written and important to the plot, so that's definitely happening. What's not definite is a side-story after _this_ chapter. I was thinking of writing Ward meeting Jemma's parents, but I don't have much inspiration for it. So far all I have is a few snippets of dialogue.
> 
> So! Time for a reader poll!
> 
> Would you rather I a) skip the side-story and focus on writing chapter twelve; b) finish up the side-story and get it posted before working on chapter twelve, which means it may be a while before you hear anything else from me; or c) work on the side-story as inspiration strikes, meaning that it will be up some time in the future, but not necessarily before chapter twelve?
> 
> If you have an opinion on this, please let me know what you think!


	12. Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team gets called to the SciTech Academy to investigate an attack against a cadet. Things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks so much for all of your comments and kudos! They mean a lot.
> 
> Second, I'm sorry this took so long! There's some Real Life stuff happening which has seriously sapped my motivation, and add that to the start of the fall semester...Well, you know how it is. Updates will probably be slower from this point on, since my priorities have shifted to 1) Real Life, 2) school, and 3) writing, as opposed to this summer, when they were 1) writing and 2) school.
> 
> I promise this fic will NOT be abandoned, it's just that I probably won't be returning to the every-three-days update schedule. Sorry.
> 
> That being said, the next thing I'll be posting is a side-story, which is nearly complete, so it should be up soon. Keep an eye out for that.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

The team is pulled off of active duty for an entire month to give Coulson time to recover from the effects of his torture. Grant spends the first two weeks of that month with Jemma—a few days on the Bus to give her parents time to absorb the news that Jemma’s doing field work, then a week and a half at her parents’ house in Sheffield. SHIELD offers to put Grant back in the specialist rotation for the duration of their leave, and, since he’s all but bouncing off the walls by the time they’re done at Jemma’s parents’ house, he eventually accepts.

So he spends the second half of their leave on assignment—three assignments, to be precise. One in Montpellier, which goes perfectly and only takes nine hours; one in Ankara, which goes a little pear-shaped and nearly ends in him getting shot again; and the final one in Málaga, where his local contact quite literally stabs him in the back. (Or tries to, at least. Luckily, Grant senses the movement in time to dodge, and the only damage done is to his jacket.)

In one way, it’s a relief to be working alone again. He doesn’t have to worry about watching anyone’s back, keep track of two wayward scientists and a borderline rebellious hacker, or concern himself with the small details of his mission. He has his orders, he follows them, and there are no unexpected twists. No deadly viruses, no ghosts, no alien artifacts. And no sign of Centipede, thank Christ.

On the other hand…in Montpellier, it takes him ten minutes to hack a laptop Skye could crack in seconds. He misses May when he’s dodging sniper fire in Ankara. And the less said about the disaster in Málaga, the better, but Fitz definitely would have come in handy.

And, of course, he spends every second worrying about and missing Jemma. He calls her after every mission, and twice a day during the few days’ downtime between assignments. She’s in California at the moment, attending some kind of symposium at Berkeley, and her enthusiastic recounting of each day’s presentations always eases his tension, despite the fact that he doesn’t understand a word of it.

Sleeping is difficult, the first few nights—he keeps waking up, worried by Jemma’s absence—but he adjusts quickly enough. He still doesn’t sleep as well as he does with Jemma next to him, but he can sleep through the night, and that’s what’s important. (It makes him feel more than a little pathetic, like a toddler who can’t sleep without his safety blanket, but there’s really nothing he can do about it, except stop sleeping with Jemma, and _that’s_ not gonna happen.)

He finishes the assignment in Málaga on the eighth of January, but doesn’t make it back to base until the ninth. The debrief takes all day—only to be expected, considering what a debacle the assignment was—and by the time he’s dismissed to return to his temporary quarters, all he wants to do is sleep. He might not even call Jemma; he’s joining her in California tomorrow, and one night without a phone call can’t hurt, can it?

“Agent Ward!”

He stops, counts to five, and turns around to face the speaker. He’s literally only feet from the door to his quarters, and if this man—Agent Murad, Administration, according to his badge—delays him for longer than, say, three seconds, he will _not_ be held accountable for his actions.

“Yeah?”

“Package for you,” Murad says, holding out a box.

Grant glances at it, but doesn’t accept it. “A package?”

No one knows where he is right now. Well, no one that would be sending him a package, anyway. This is, in a word, suspicious. And just because SHIELD scans all incoming packages for dangerous content is no reason to let his guard down.

“It arrived a few days ago,” Murad explains. “Forwarded from the Hub.”

Taking a closer look at the box, he relaxes. He can make out Jemma’s handwriting on the label, her neat print spelling out GRANT WARD, CLASSIFIED LOCATION. Suspicion replaced with curiosity, he accepts the box.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No problem,” Murad says. “Have a nice night.”

Grant returns the sentiment absently as he swipes his security badge to unlock the door to his room. He checks for any sign that the room has been entered in his absence (unlikely, but caution has kept him alive this long), then, when he’s satisfied that it hasn’t, takes off his shoulder holster and puts it in the gun safe beneath the nightstand. He takes his back-up out of his waistband and tucks it under the pillow—he doesn’t even sleep unarmed on the Bus, he’s certainly not going to do so here—then takes a seat on the bed and studies the box.

It’s small, barely the size of a shoebox, and he wonders what it contains that’s so important it couldn’t wait until he joins Jemma in California tomorrow.

Well, there’s only one way to find out.

He peels the packing tape off and opens the box to find it contains three more boxes, each wrapped in plain white paper, and a folded piece of paper. A little bemused, he unfolds the paper. It’s a letter from Jemma, and things become suddenly clear when he reads the first two lines.

_Dear Grant,_

_Happy Birthday!_

That’s right. His birthday is the seventh, and it’s the ninth now. It’s hardly a surprise that he forgot; he hasn’t celebrated his birthday since his days at military school, where a cadet’s birthday was the one day a year he was allowed to sleep in. More than a little touched that Jemma not only remembered, but went to the trouble of sending him something, he returns his attention to the letter.

_Dear Grant,_

_Happy Birthday! I hope this reaches you reasonably close to the actual date. Since I don’t actually know where you are, I’m relying upon SHIELD’s internal mail system, which is, at best, somewhat dodgy. I suppose I could have waited and given you your present in person, but it’s just not the same, is it? Additionally, I can’t remember the last time I wrote an actual letter, and this seemed a perfect opportunity to do so._

_Enclosed within are three presents. They’re not much, I’m afraid, but I hope you like them anyway. I believe two of them rather speak for themselves, but the third (which you will find in the box marked ‘M’) requires a little explanation._

Curious, he takes out the three wrapped boxes. The one with ‘M’ written on top of it is long and thin, and he unwraps it quickly. Opening the box, he finds…well, he has no idea what it is. It looks a little like a pen, only not really. There’s a switch on one side of it, but he decides it would probably be better to read Jemma’s letter and find out what it is before turning it on.

_It’s called a Mousehole, and it is, in my opinion, one of Fitz’s most ingenious inventions. It’s a portable cutting device which can cut through most any material. It was never approved for mass production, for some reason, but we still have a few. I hope you like it, and even if you don’t, you should keep it close. Considering our luck, it’s sure to come in useful someday._

That’s true enough. In any case, he does like it—in fact, he wishes he’d gotten this package _before_ going to Málaga. It would have come in handy.

_Anyway, happy birthday, Grant. I don’t suppose there’s any chance that you’ll spend it quietly, but with any luck, it will be happy nonetheless. I hope that you’re safe, wherever you are, and that your missions are going well. See you soon!_

_With love,_

_Jemma_

Smiling to himself, he returns the Mousehole to its box, folds up the letter and places both on the nightstand. Then he picks up the other two boxes. Neither one is marked, so he opens the smaller one first. Bizarrely, it’s a Hot Wheels car, and he pulls it out of the box to look at it, perplexed.

When he realizes what it is, he has to laugh. It’s a Porsche 918 Spyder, and months ago, when he and Jemma were still in the stage of getting to know each other by asking questions from lists they found on Google, he told her one of these cars is the first thing he’d buy if he ever won the lottery. The real version, that is, not a Hot Wheels version. He didn’t even realize that Hot Wheels _made_ 918 Spyders.

It’s a hilarious gift, but it’s also weirdly touching. The conversation was months ago, barely a week after they met, and he knew at the time that the only reason Jemma asked that question was to change the subject away from talk of their respective families. Taking about Ashton put him on edge, and he thought he was hiding it well, but Jemma seemed to pick up on it anyway, and smoothly switched topics before he could get too uncomfortable.

That she remembers the answer he gave to a flippant question four months ago…

He rolls his eyes at himself and sets the car back in its box, then places the box on the nightstand. He can’t believe he’s getting emotional over a toy car, of all things. He’s _definitely_ been away from Jemma too long.

The last box is the largest of the three, similar in shape to the Mousehole, and he opens it to reveal a switchblade. The handle is simple—good quality, but nothing that will stand out if he has to use it while undercover. Flicking the knife open, he lets out a quiet whistle; it’s a nice one, a lot better than the SHIELD-issue blade he’s been carrying for the last three years, and he has to wonder where Jemma found it.

He weighs it in his hand for a moment, then puts it and its box on the nightstand. Then he kicks off his boots and slides back on the bed to rest his back against the wall as he pulls out his phone. Sleep can wait a little longer.

The phone rings twice before Jemma picks up.

“Hello?” she nearly shouts. There’s a lot of background noise, and he wonders where she is; admittedly, he’s never attended a biochemistry lecture series, but he doesn’t imagine it’s usually so loud.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Grant!” she exclaims happily. “No, it’s not a bad time. Just a moment.” There’s a pause, then the noise level drops abruptly. “There we are. It’s very loud in there. How are you? How did your mission go?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “Not a scratch.” He can’t honestly say the mission went well, and he’d rather not think of it anyway, so he decides not to address that question. “Where are you?”

“The student union,” she says. “The students are having a back-to-school party, and Dr. Singh decided we should crash it.”

“Are you having fun?”

“Not really,” she admits. “Beer pong and karaoke weren’t really my idea of entertainment when I was actually _in_ uni. And they haven’t become more appealing with age. I was actually just about to look for a ride back to the hotel when you called.”

“You don’t have a ride?” he asks, concerned.

“Well, I do, but Erica is having such a good time, I hate to pull her away,” she says. There’s an odd scraping sound, and then she continues. “Although the boys she’s destroying at beer pong may thank me for it.”

He has to laugh at that; he’s well aware of just how fragile the egos of college-aged boys can be. The laugh turns into a yawn halfway through, and he decides to get to the point of the call. Usually he’d love to spend hours on the phone with Jemma, but he’s been awake for thirty-nine hours now. In any case, he’ll see her in the morning, so there’s no point in dragging things out.

“I wanted to thank you,” he says. “I just got your package.”

“Oh, good,” Jemma sighs. “I was hoping it would reach you before you joined me. Happy birthday!”

“Thank you,” he says. “For that and the gifts. They’re perfect. I love the Mousehole, especially. You’re right, it’ll come in handy.”

“I’m glad you like it,” she says. He can hear the smile in her voice, and he briefly regrets asking to be returned to the specialist rotation, however temporarily. He might’ve been going crazy with inactivity, but he doesn’t know that going crazy missing her is any better.

Well, there’s no point in worrying about it now. He’ll be back with her in the morning. Or at least, it’ll be morning for her; for him, it will be mid-afternoon, but such is the world of international travel.

“I really do,” he says. “And this is a _really_ nice switchblade.”

“Agent May helped me pick it,” she confesses. “Since my knowledge of automatic knives is…essentially nonexistent.”

“Well it was a nice choice,” he assures her. “Although I have to ask—where the hell did you find a 918 Spyder _Hot Wheel_?”

Jemma laughs. “I thought that was a nice touch! I found it the last time Fitz and I did the grocery shopping. I hope you like the color.”

“Yeah, it’s great,” he says, laughing as well. “What did—”

He breaks off, yawning, and Jemma makes a little noise.

“You’re tired,” she says.

“Wow. Nothing gets past you, does it?” he teases gently.

“Well, I _am_ a highly educated scientist,” she points out playfully. “But, really, when was the last time you slept?”

“It’s been a while,” he admits around another yawn. “The last op ran a little long.”

“In that case, I’ll let you go,” she decides. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“First thing,” he promises. “I’ll be landing before dawn.”

“Then I should _definitely_ let you go,” she says. “I’ll leave a key waiting for you at the front desk.”

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” she says. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” he says. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight!”

After hanging up, he plugs his phone in to charge and then heads to the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth. Less than half an hour later, he’s climbing into bed. He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

\---

The three ops he spent the last two weeks on are so classified that the team isn’t even allowed to know which SHIELD base he’s been stationed at, which is why he’s arranged transport to California. He and Jemma will have three days to themselves, and then the team will be picking them up on the thirteenth. He’s glad for the extra time with Jemma—he’s missed her so much it physically hurt at times—but if he’d had a little more say, he would have arranged for the transport to drop him off a little later.

Still, there’s not much he can do about it, so at five a.m. he boards a jump jet bound for California. It’s a long flight, most of which he spends dozing, but thanks to the vagaries of time zones, they land at the SHIELD base just outside of San Francisco at a little before four a.m., local time. Despite the early hour, the base is bustling, and it’s no trouble finding a Level Three agent to drive him to Jemma’s hotel in Berkeley.

The drive passes in silence, and it’s mercifully short. It’s not long at all before the agent pulls into the hotel parking lot.

“Thanks for the ride,” Grant tells him, receiving only a nod in return. He grabs his duffle out of the back seat and heads into the hotel.

The lobby is deserted; not surprising, since it’s not even five yet. There’s a woman at the front desk who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, and he approaches her with a smile, sliding into his best ‘harmless civilian’ persona.

“Good morning,” the receptionist—Marie, apparently—greets him. “Checking in?”

“Actually, my soulmate already has a room,” he tells her. “The key’s supposed to be waiting for me. Grant Ward.”

“One moment, please,” Marie says, and checks her computer. “Do you have ID, Mr. Ward?”

Good question. He has his SHIELD badge, but he’d prefer not to flash that around. It takes him a few seconds, but eventually he remembers that his wallet is in his duffle, and he digs it out. He pulls out his driver’s license, double checks that it’s the right one—wouldn’t do to hand her one of his aliases’ IDs—and then hands it over.

Marie taps at her keyboard for a moment, then hands his license back with a smile.

“This looks to be in order,” she says. She pulls an envelope out of a drawer and hands it to him. “Ms. Simmons is in room 243. Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Ward?”

“No, that’s all, thanks,” he says, dropping his wallet back into his duffle. “Have a nice day.”

“You, too,” she calls after him as he walks away. He opens the envelope as he goes and tosses it in a nearby trashcan after removing the key-card from it.

The room’s only on the second floor, but he takes the elevator anyway. He didn’t exactly _lie_ to Jemma when he said he didn’t have a scratch, but he wasn’t entirely truthful, either. He managed to wrench his knee pretty badly dodging disaster in Málaga, and it’s aching enough that he decides to spare himself the stairs.

Room 243 is just down the hall from the elevator, and it’s with great relief that he unlocks the door and slips inside. Even sleeping through his entire flight wasn’t enough to make up for the sleep he lost in Málaga and Ankara, and he’s looking forward to catching a few more hours—this time with Jemma beside him.

He slides the deadbolt on the door closed, then drops his duffle in the entryway. The room is dark, lit only by the glow of the street lamps seeping through the gaps in the blinds, and he leans against the wall to kick his boots off, giving his eyes time to adjust. When they do, they go straight to the bed, and all of the tension he’s been carrying for the past two weeks melts away.

Jemma’s fast asleep, curled on her side and facing the door. She’s kicked her blanket to the bottom of the bed, and he can see her shivering slightly—not a surprise, since the air conditioning is going full blast. He’ll be joining her just as soon as he changes, but there’s no reason for her to freeze while he does, so Grant makes his way across the room silently and pulls the covers up to Jemma’s shoulders. She turns her face into her pillow, murmuring something about ladybugs, and he smiles as he steps away.

He changes quickly, puts one of his guns on the bedside table and the other in the safe in the closet, and then slips into bed. He does his best not to jostle Jemma, but there’s not much he can do about the way his added weight shifts the mattress, and despite his best efforts, she wakes up as he settles next to her.

“What?” she asks groggily.

“Just me,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” she mutters, shifting to lie against him. “Missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” he says quietly, but he’s pretty sure she’s already asleep again. It doesn’t take him long at all to join her.

\---

The next three days fall into an easy routine. Jemma decides to skip the rest of the symposium, even though he tells her he’d be glad to accompany her, so there’s nothing urgent for them to do. As such, they spend the mornings in their room, taking gleeful advantage of the most privacy they’ll have for the foreseeable future—not to mention the much larger bed.

In the afternoons, they go into the city and pretend to be a normal couple on vacation. Over the course of the three days, they catch a movie, go bowling, check out the tourist attractions (including a botanical garden that delights Jemma), and eat dinner at the highest rated restaurants on Yelp.

It’s nothing particularly exciting, but it’s a nice break. He’s glad they get it, a few happy days spent together before they go back to work, and all of the danger that comes with it. He hates having Jemma in the field, because it puts her in the line of fire no matter how much care he takes with her safety, but…

After two weeks spent without her, he’s more grateful than ever that Coulson insisted the both of them stay on the team. He knows it’s selfish of him, but taking Jemma into the field is better than being without her.

\---

On the fourth day, they’re just finishing up eating breakfast in the lobby when Skye drops into the seat next to Jemma.

“No, please, join us,” Grant invites her dryly over Jemma’s pleased greeting.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she says, leaning forward to steal a piece of bacon from his plate. “What’s up, guys? Good vacation?”

“It _was_ ,” he says, moving his plate out of her reach.

Jemma nudges him. “Stop it! Don’t listen to him, Skye. We had a lovely time. What about you?”

“It was good,” Skye says, nodding to herself. “Y’know, caught some sun, did some shopping, had a fling with a hot lifeguard.”

Considering the fact that, the last he checked, Skye’s only plans were to visit Ace Peterson (not dealing well with his father’s death, according to reports), he doubts her vacation was as fun as she makes it sound.

“In January?” Jemma asks skeptically.

“What? It’s California, Simmons, there are always lifeguards.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Jemma acknowledges.

“So,” Skye says. “Don’t hold out on me! How did the meet the parents thing go? Did your dad threaten to shoot Ward?” She lowers her voice. “Did Ward threaten to shoot _him_?”

Jemma laughs. “No! There were no threats at all. Mum and Dad loved Grant. _Just_ as I said they would.”

Skye looks at Grant, obviously expecting a contradiction. She’s not getting one, though.

“It’s true,” he tells her. “Jemma’s parents were very friendly.”

Weirdly so, actually. They welcomed him to the family within minutes of being introduced, insisted on being called by their first names, and Jemma’s father, Edmund, kept calling Grant ‘son’. Adela, Jemma’s mother, spent the whole time dropping hints about marriage and grandchildren. There was no interrogation, no threats, and not a single indication that Jemma’s parents were anything less than over the moon about him being her soulmate.

Grant had _no_ idea how to deal with such a warm welcome, and spent the entire visit feeling distinctly wrong-footed.

“Seriously?” Skye demands. “Not even a shovel speech?”

“A what?” he asks.

“No, not even a shovel speech,” Jemma confirms.

“That’s so disappointing,” Skye mutters. “Pop culture lied to me.”

“No, seriously,” he says, leaning closer to Jemma. “What’s a shovel speech?”

“A threatening talk,” she says. “Something along the lines of ‘if you hurt my daughter, I’ll kill you with this shovel.’”

Grant considers this. “Why a shovel?”

It’s good for blunt force, obviously, but there are much more efficient ways to kill someone. And he really can’t picture either one of Jemma’s mild-mannered parents beating anyone to death.

“Because once you kill them, you can use the shovel to dig them a grave,” Skye informs him. “It’s efficient.”

He could definitely argue that, but he has a feeling he’s missing out on a reference here. He’ll ask Jemma to explain it later. In the meantime, Skye’s presence probably means that the team is waiting on them. Not that he would put it past her to hack Jemma’s credit card to find out where she was staying for the sole purpose of interrupting their breakfast, but since they’ve been expecting a ride…

“You bring the SUV?” he asks.

“Nope,” Skye says, pulling off a piece of Jemma’s muffin. “Took one of the base’s.”

Jemma slides her plate over to Skye. “Any particular reason?”

“Turns out May did some damage to ours when she hit that Centipede guy,” Skye says as she peels the paper off of the muffin. “Since we’ve all been on vacation, no one realized ‘til this morning that the engine is…” She makes a vague gesture. “May and Fitz are fixing it.”

Well, that explains why it’s Skye picking them up. It’s a little sloppy, he thinks, that no one checked the SUV for damage after that collision, but to be fair, he didn’t think of it, either. They were all distracted.

“So are you ready to go?” Skye asks.

“Yes, I think so,” Jemma says, looking at Grant.

He nods.

“Great,” Skye says, sliding a key ring across the table to him. “You’re driving.”

\---

Skye wants him to drive because traffic is horrible. Thanks to a construction project narrowing down the freeway to one lane, it takes nearly three hours to get to the base outside San Francisco. It’s an aggravating drive, and by the time they reach the base he’s very ready to hit something.

“I warned you,” Skye says as they’re getting out of the car.

Grant just looks at her.

“Okay, well, technically I didn’t _say_ anything, but you really should have guessed,” Skye insists. “I mean, really, I gave you the keys without even being _asked_. That didn’t make you even a little suspicious?”

Grant rolls his eyes and slings his duffle bag over his shoulder, then grabs Jemma’s suitcase out of the trunk. She squeezes his arm sympathetically.

“Okay, whatever,” Skye says. “Let’s go find the Bus. This place gives me the creeps.”

“The garage gives you the creeps?” he asks as he leads the way out of it. “Really?”

“No,” Skye snaps. “I mean, yeah, kinda, but I was talking about the base. Where’d they get their decorating tips, Better Homes and _Prisons_?”

“It is a bit dreary, isn’t it?” Jemma agrees, examining the grey walls. “The Hub is much nicer.”

Grant’s…never given the decorating scheme much thought. Here, or at any other base. He shakes his head.

“Hangar’s through here,” he says, indicating the proper door.

The Bus is on the far side of the hangar, near the doors to the runway. It looks like they’ve made it just in time—the SUV is pulling into the cargo bay, and Fitz is at the bottom of the ramp, packing up a toolbox.

“Hey, Fitz,” Skye calls. “All fixed?”

“Well, obviously,” he says, standing. He gives them a little nod. “Ward. Simmons, welcome back.”

“Hello, Fitz,” Jemma says cheerfully. “Did you have a nice holiday?”

“Nice enough,” Fitz nods as they walk up the ramp. “How was the symposium? Did Dr. Phạm present her theory on proton-coupled electron transfer?”

Jemma eagerly begins to summarize the symposium as she and Fitz enter the lab, and he leaves them to it. He’s heard it all before, and he didn’t understand it the first time. Instead, he follows Skye upstairs. He needs to drop his and Jemma’s luggage in their bunks, anyway.

“How’s Coulson?” he asks Skye as they cross the lounge.

“Okay? I think?” she shrugs. “Quiet. Spends a lot of time in his office, but…can’t blame him, right?”

“Right,” he agrees, a little uncomfortably.

\---

They may technically be back on duty, but there are no missions on the docket, so the day passes quietly. Jemma and Fitz spend it in the lab, of course. Despite the fact that it’s been a month since they gathered it, SHIELD has barely made a dent in all of the data they amassed in the raids carried out against Centipede while Coulson was missing, and Jemma and Fitz are all too happy to dig through it.

(It makes Grant a bit nervous, honestly, but he knows he’s got nothing to worry about. Garrett’s a paranoid bastard—there’s nothing in the Centipede files to lead SHIELD to them.)

Grant, for his part, has paperwork to take care of. It doesn’t matter how thorough the debriefs were, SHIELD still demands mission reports after every op. It’s inconvenient, but after ten years, he’s learned to live with it. The only real problem is finding a place to complete the reports where no one will interrupt him. After all, the assignments were classified, and it wouldn’t do to have a member of the team reading over his shoulder.

In the end, he takes his reports into the Cage, after receiving Coulson’s permission to disengage the cameras for the day. He spends all day in there, slogging through expense forms, action analyses, and data evaluation, and doesn’t finish his final report until nearly eleven.

He takes breaks for lunch and dinner, of course, and makes sure Jemma and Fitz do the same. Coulson is notable by his absence for both meals. In fact, the only time Grant sees him at all that day is when he goes to Coulson’s office to ask permission to turn off the cameras in the Cage. It’s more than a little concerning, but it’s probably to be expected. After all, the man went through a traumatic experience barely a month ago.

The mental effects of that kind of thing tend to linger. Grant knows from experience.

\---

After his shower the next morning, Grant is just pulling on his socks when the intercom in his bunk beeps.

“Ward,” May says. “We’ve got a briefing in three.”

“Understood,” he says.

After putting on and lacing his boots, he joins the team in the briefing room. Once again, Coulson’s absence is notable but not surprising. There’s an image up on the monitor—a paused video, he realizes after a moment, three teenagers standing next to an indoor pool.

“This occurred last night,” May tells them, and starts the video.

They watch in silence as two of the teenagers jump into the pool and try to entice the third to join them. There’s a fourth teenager sitting on bleachers off to the side, but he’s obviously not part of the group, as he starts packing up his things to leave. It’s only a few seconds before the reason they’re being shown the video becomes obvious: starting in the far back corner, the pool begins to freeze over. Fast. The two kids in the water race for the steps, and while the girl makes it out in time, the boy gets stuck when the water freezes around his leg.

The two girls struggle to pull him from the ice, while the other boy grabs a net and uses the pole to break it. The video ends with the kids stumbling away from the pool, the boy visibly limping.

“Well,” Skye says. “That was…weird.”

“What do we know?” Jemma asks, staring thoughtfully at the monitor, still showing the last frame of the video. He can practically see her considering how the water might have been made to freeze so quickly.

“Not much,” May says. “We’re waiting on a call from Agent Weaver.”

“Agent Weaver?” Jemma and Fitz echo, obviously stunned.

“You can’t mean—” Jemma breaks off, flustered.

“This happened at the Academy?” Fitz demands.

“Yes,” May says. She taps at the holocom, and four SHIELD cadet IDs appear on the monitor. “Here’s what we know. The cadets are Callie Hannigan, Yvonne Saunders, Donnie Gill, and Seth Dormer—the victim. They’ve all been interviewed. None of them saw anything, none of them know anything, and none of them can think of anyone who’d want to hurt any of them.”

“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” Skye asks.

Mays tips her head at her. “Academy security examined the pool and found the device believed to have caused the reaction.” She hands a tablet to Jemma. “Agent Weaver thought you might like a look at it.”

Jemma’s eyes widen as she looks down at the tablet, and she shows it to Fitz, who frowns and takes it from her.

“Agent May, do you mind if we…?” Jemma asks, gesturing vaguely at the door.

“Go,” May nods.

Jemma and Fitz leave the briefing room, consulting in hurried whispers, and Grant watches as they head to the kitchen. Something about the device has obviously upset them, and it makes him uneasy.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, however, as the holocom lights up with an alert for an incoming call. May accepts it, and the images on the monitor disappear, replaced by the video call.

“Agent May,” the woman on screen says. “Thank you for responding so quickly.”

“Of course, Agent Weaver,” May nods. “Have you learned anything else?”

“Not much,” Weaver says grimly. “However, we’ve discovered that the security footage from the pool has been tampered with. Judging by the missing footage, it appears the device used to freeze the pool was placed in the drain a few days ago.”

“Meaning these cadets were specifically targeted,” Grant surmises.

“It appears so,” Weaver agrees. “All four cadets have been thoroughly questioned, and none of them have any idea who might be behind this.”

“How’s Seth?” Skye asks.

“He’s fine,” Weaver says. “Just a touch of mild frostbite. He’s already returned to classes.”

“And the other three?” Grant asks.

“Shaken up,” Weaver sighs. “Honestly, all of the cadets are rattled. This easily could’ve been a tragedy, and they’re all aware of it.” Her eyes flick over the team. “I was given to understand that Agents Fitz and Simmons are part of your team, Agent May?”

“They are,” she confirms. “They’re looking over the specs of the device.”

“Of course they are,” Weaver says with a decidedly fond smile. “Well, when they’re finished, tell them I’d appreciate it if they would give a talk about potentiality. It may calm down our student body.”

“We’ll ask them,” May assures her. “Is there anything else?”

“I’m afraid that’s all I have, at the moment,” Weaver says. “I’ll contact you with any new developments. When will you arrive?”

“Our ETA is 1430, local time,” May tells her.

Weaver nods sharply. “We’ll be expecting you, then. Thank you.”

The call disengages, and May dismisses them.

Wanting to find out what’s bothering Jemma and Fitz, Grant makes a beeline for the kitchen. Skye follows him, but she’s apparently more hungry than curious, because she busies herself with pouring a bowl of cereal. He takes a second to pour himself a cup of coffee, then turns his attention to the situation in the kitchen.

Fitz is making tea, while Jemma leans back against the counter, staring at the tablet with the information about the device on it. She looks distinctly unhappy, and he takes the tablet out of her hand, wondering what about it is so upsetting.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, looking at the pictures.

“There is nothing more unsettling,” she says miserably. “Being a part of something so horrible, completely unaware. The cadet could have died.”

Ah. He has a feeling he knows where this is going.

Sure enough, it turns out that the device is based on designs that Jemma and Fitz drew up years ago. Jemma invented the process that actually froze the pool, while Fitz designed the delivery mechanism. It explains why they specifically have been ordered to investigate—Jemma and Fitz’s knowledge of the device will be an asset. However, Jemma is clearly distressed by her involvement, no matter how involuntary.

He fills Jemma and Fitz in on what little information Weaver had to add, then passes along the request for them to speak to the cadets. It seems to cheer them up, at least a little.

“Of course,” Jemma says nostalgically. “The _talk_. We’ve all heard the talk.”

“I haven’t,” Skye reminds her.

“I guess you will,” Grant says.

“Well, I’ve heard a lot about the Academy,” she says brightly. “I’m excited to finally see it.”

“Me, too,” Grant agrees. He really is—he’s heard a lot about SciTech from Jemma, and it’s made him pretty curious. “I’ve never been to SciTech before.”

His comment sparks a discussion about the rivalry between academies, and while it wasn’t what he intended, he’s glad to see that Jemma is thoroughly distracted. Their respective academies have been a source of friendly debate between the two of them, and occasionally Fitz, but at least there’s one thing they can all agree on: disdain for the Academy of Communications.

May passes through the kitchen on her way to the cockpit, slightly distracting Skye, who asks if she and Coulson are going to help Grant steal SciTech’s mascot. (Too bad the academies don’t actually have mascots, because that actually sounds like a fun challenge.)

“We’re not going,” May says. “After we drop you off, Coulson and I have other matters to attend to.”

That’s slightly worrying. The four of them look at each other in concern as May walks away and then, by unspoken agreement, draw closer so they can speak more quietly.

“Coulson hasn’t come out of his office in a _while_ ,” Skye points out. “Do you think he’s all right?”

“We saw him at a low,” Grant reminds her. “It’s not easy for anybody. Coulson’s tough as they come. He’ll be good. Just give him time.”

He tries to sound encouraging, but the truth is, he’s not as sure as his words would suggest. He knows, from what little Coulson has shared about the experience, that the torture he suffered was more mental than physical. And the physical was pretty bad.

“And while he takes that time,” he continues. “It’s on us to figure out what’s going on at the Academy.”

There’s really not much to say after that, so he heads to his bunk to change. He’s going to SciTech as a representative of the Ops Academy, which means—as much as he hates it—he needs to wear a suit. Of course, there’s no one to enforce it—Coulson probably won’t be coming out of his office any time soon and he can’t see May caring—but just imagining what his old instructors would say if they heard he visited SciTech wearing jeans is enough to make him wince.

Jemma follows him, but doesn’t speak until they’ve entered the bunk and closed the door behind them.

“So,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “How much of that was true?”

He should’ve known that a motivational speech wouldn’t be enough to fool her. He sighs and opens the closet, pulling out his nice suit.

“Coulson does need time,” he says. “And it’s _not_ easy, what he went through. But us seeing him at a low isn’t the biggest problem here.”

“It’s the torture,” Jemma guesses.

“The effects of the torture,” he corrects. “What Coulson went through…it’s not something that you can just brush off. Bruises fade, but the mental scars…”

He kicks off his boots as he considers what he should say—what he _can_ say, without giving away his very personal experience with torture.

“Coulson gave up,” he says finally. “When Skye found him he was begging to be killed. That’s gonna linger. That kind of surrender…it makes a man feel weak. He needs to come to terms with that. It’ll take time.”

Jemma watches him as he changes, but he can tell she’s not just appreciating the view. She’s thoughtful, and he thinks maybe he gave away too much, after all.

“What happens if he can’t?” she asks finally, as he’s buttoning up his shirt. “Come to terms with it, I mean.”

He sighs and sits down to put on his dress shoes. “Then it’s time to take a desk job.”

“It’s that serious?” Jemma asks quietly.

“If he can’t accept what happened,” Grant says, equally quiet. “If he can’t move past it…he’ll spend every mission trying to prove his own strength to himself. In that mindset, he’s a threat. To himself, and to the rest of us.”

She gives him another thoughtful look, but doesn’t comment. Instead, she leans over and kisses his cheek.

“Thank you for explaining it,” she says. “And for comforting Fitz and Skye.”

He shrugs, a little uncomfortable. “It’s my job.”

“It’s really not,” Jemma says, with a bright smile. She kisses his cheek again, then stands. “I suppose I should change, as well, if I’m going to be giving the _talk_ to the student body. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Later.”

He watches her leave, a bit confused. He doesn’t know what that was, just now—what did she mean, it’s not his job? It’s his job to protect the team, to keep them safe, and he can’t keep Skye and Fitz safe if they’re distracted worrying about Coulson. And he has to keep Fitz and Skye safe, because Jemma cares about them. She’d be upset if anything happened to them.

It’s all part of the job. That’s all.

\---

Two hours later, the Bus lands not far from the Academy. It’s a mark of how seriously they’re taking the threat against the cadets that May doesn’t even bother finding them an airfield. She just picks a field a few miles away for a vertical landing.

Whatever May and Coulson are going to do while the rest of the team is at the Academy must be important, too, because Grant has barely pulled the SUV on to the road when the Bus takes off again behind them.

“They’re in a hurry,” Skye says, a little uneasily. “Did May say anything about what they’re doing?”

“No,” Grant says, taking a moment to orient himself on the GPS. “It’s probably classified.”

“Okay, but you and May are the same level, right? So why wouldn’t they tell you? It’s weird.”

“There are different levels of classified,” he says. “May’s got longer in grade, which means she outranks me. And she’s technically Coulson’s second. There’s nothing weird about it.”

“Wait, they can cut you out because May is _more_ Level Seven than you are? Like…Level Seven Deluxe? What kind of perks does that come with?”

Grant rolls his eyes as Jemma laughs.

“Wait, is _that_ why she has a nickname and you don’t?” Skye asks. “Like, once you’ve been Level Seven for long enough, will people start calling you something?”

“There’s a thought,” Fitz mutters.

“The real question,” Jemma says, twisting in her seat to look at the two in the back. “Is what would they call him?”

“ _Jemma_ ,” he says, betrayed.

“They can’t call you Jemma, that’s my name,” she says dismissively.

“Something to do with robots, maybe?” Skye suggests. “Or would that be too on-the-nose?”

“It has to be something impressive,” Jemma says. “Something…”

“Evocative,” Fitz supplies. “The Cavalry, that has meaning, doesn’t it?”

“Right, it comes complete with the mental image,” Skye agrees. “So what could we call Ward?”

“We’re here,” he says, interrupting Jemma’s reply, thank God.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Fitz says to Jemma and Skye. Grant pretends not to hear him.

Jemma and Fitz lead the way out of the parking lot and up a hill. When they reach the top, the four of them stop for a moment to take in the SciTech Academy. It’s honestly pretty much what Grant expected. There are cadets wandering the lawn, some of them sitting and reading under trees, some of them running back and forth, a few of them playing some kind of game involving lasers…

There are no instructors in sight. As far as he can tell, there’s no one supervising these cadets. It’s no wonder someone was able to nearly kill those kids in the pool—no one was watching them, either. What else can you expect from an academy that prizes science over discipline?

Jemma gives Skye a bit of a history lesson as Grant examines the campus. He’s considering maximum traffic areas—if the cadets in the pool _weren’t_ specifically targeted, the incident may have been a test run for the real thing, and even if it wasn’t, it still pays to know the danger areas of a new location—when Fitz pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Is Science and Technology what you imagined, Agent Ward?” he asks.

“Yep,” he says. “No uniforms, no rope course, no defined muscularity on anyone…”

“No marching in place, no IQs in double digits,” Fitz counters.

Grant’s saved from having to reply to that—he needs to remember that insulting Fitz means insulting Jemma, when it comes to their respective academies—by the approach of Agent Weaver. Watching her interact with Jemma and Fitz, it’s obvious that the three of them are friendly, and Grant makes a mental note to ask Jemma about it later.

“Agent Ward, pleasure to have you, sir,” she says to him.

“Agent Weaver,” he says, shaking her hand. “There’s a list of suspects?”

The answer is ‘kind of’. They’ve narrowed it down to the top ten percent of the cadets, based on the intelligence suggested by the design of the device, but that’s really all they’ve got. Weaver’s afraid they might have a bad seed, and Grant finds himself starting to explain the term to Skye before she interrupts with the reminder that it’s not SHIELD specific.

He knows that, of course—how often was he (unfairly) called a bad seed as a kid?—he’s just a little distracted. Because, really? The best clue they’ve got as to the identity of the perpetrator is that the person is _smart_? It’s SciTech, for crying out loud. That’s as much help as saying the person speaks English.

With that in mind, he tells Weaver he’d like to speak to the victim himself, and she agrees—once the kid’s out of class, of course. Scientists.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Weaver says. “I’d like to get Agents Fitz and Simmons settled into the lecture hall.”

Jemma and Fitz nod agreeably and follow Weaver away. As they cross the lawn, they’re swarmed by cadets, and Grant can see cadets further away pointing excitedly. It’s about what he expected, really—Jemma and Fitz are some of SHIELD’s most famous scientists, of course the future members of SciOps are excited to see them—but Skye’s surprised.

“Look at them,” she says. “The popular kids. Who knew?”

“I did,” he says. He watches Jemma and Fitz get swarmed for a moment longer, then turns to Skye. “Come on. While we have a minute, I think there’s something you’ll wanna see.”

Skye is a lot more dedicated to the team than she used to be, but she still has an ‘us vs. them’ mentality when it comes to SHIELD. It’s inconvenient. Skye being a consultant, rather than an agent, worked against them when Coulson was missing. She managed to work around it, but it still delayed them, and there’s no telling what trouble it might cause in the future.

He hates to draw _anyone_ closer to SHIELD, which has proved a hundred times over that it is entirely unworthy of devotion, but it can’t be helped. If Skye’s going to remain an asset, she needs to be an agent, not a consultant. But she has to _want_ to be an agent. Which means she needs to connect to SHIELD the way she has to the team. And exposing her to the history and tradition that SHIELD offers will probably help with that, considering her need to belong somewhere.

So he leads her across the lawn and into the administration building. The Wall of Valor is right where he’s expecting it to be, just inside the lobby.

“The Wall of Valor,” Skye says as they approach it.

“So you’ve read about it,” he notes. Good to know she’s actually _doing_ the reading he assigns her—that’s a little harder to check than if she’s keeping up with her training. He’s not about to start giving her quizzes on the reading material, so mostly he’s just been working on the assumption that she’s doing what he tells her to.

Which he knows is a dangerous assumption to make, when it comes to Skye, but…whatever. Clearly it was safe to make in this case, at least.

“Every SHIELD facility has a memorial to the agents lost in the line of duty,” Skye says, moving closer. “SHIELD’s history can be traced on walls like this.” She makes a little sound and reaches out to touch one of the names. “Bucky Barnes.”

“Puts it in perspective,” he muses. “What we do.”

The sheer number of times his name has nearly ended up on the Wall of Valor…it’s for Garrett, of course, but still. It makes it feel…bigger. SHIELD can’t be trusted, but it’s good at making people feel like they belong.

“Must make you guys proud,” she says. “All this history? Just wish I was a part of it.”

That’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for, but he really doesn’t know what to say to it.

“It’s not self-pity, really,” she assures him, misreading his silence. “I’m just saying, everyone here has earned this. They deserve it. I _hacked_ my way in. Feels like I cheated.”

He takes a deep breath and joins her at the Wall. Time for the sales pitch. He really does hate to do it. Convincing Skye to trust SHIELD when he knows how stupid that is…it feels like setting her up for failure. But the mission comes first, and the mission can’t afford to have Skye at odds with SHIELD.

“All you need to join,” he tells her. “Is a dedication to the greater good. Coulson saw that in you the moment he met you.”

Skye looks at him for a long moment, then back at the Wall.

“Maybe,” she says quietly.

She’s got the idea in her head; now’s the time to back off and let it percolate. So he clears his throat and checks his watch.

“If we hurry, we might make it in time to hear Jemma and Fitz’s talk,” he says.

“Right,” Skye agrees, shaking off her contemplative mood. “The fabled _talk_. Wouldn’t wanna miss out on that.”

“Auditorium’s this way,” he tells her, and leads the way. He’s glad he took the time to memorize the campus map on his way over.

“So, what’s with FitzSimmons, anyway?” Skye asks as they leave the building and head for the auditorium. “Why was everyone so happy to see them?”

“Jemma and Fitz are famous in some circles,” he says. “They’re the youngest ever graduates of the SciTech Academy.”

“What, really?” she asks. “Neat.”

“Add that to how many of their inventions have been adopted for widespread use by SHIELD agents,” he continues. “They’re like SciOps rock stars.”

“Wow,” Skye says. “I had no idea.”

They enter the auditorium building, where he directs Skye towards the stairs. If the SciTech auditorium is anything like the one at Operations, entering through the door on the bottom floor is a pointless endeavor. Sure enough, as they approach the staircase, he can see a sign on the door next to it that says “Please use 2nd floor entrance.”

They’ve barely set foot on the second floor when he hears his name being called. He turns to see a man in a lab coat approaching, followed by a cadet that, after a moment, he recognizes as Seth Dormer.

“Agent Ward?” the man says. “I’m Professor Cain. This is Seth Dormer. I believe you wanted to speak to him?”

“I did,” Grant confirms. “Thank you.”

Cain nods distractedly, hands him a tablet, and continues on his way, heading down the stairs.

“I guess he’s got somewhere to be,” Skye comments blandly. “You want me to stick around?”

“No, go ahead,” he says. “Save me a seat.”

“Don’t take too long. It’ll hurt Simmons’ feelings if you miss her big speech,” she teases.

“I’m sure,” he agrees. As she walks away, he examines the tablet Cain handed him. It’s a list of names, presumably the top ten percent of the cadets—the ones singled out as possible suspects. Tapping one of the names (Marlene Sanchez) brings him to the cadet’s permanent record. He confirms that she’s in the top ten percent (she’s third in the class), then clicks back to the list.

Then he turns to Dormer. “Agent Grant Ward. I have some questions for you.”

“That’s what I was told, sir,” Dormer says.

“I know you’ve already been questioned about the incident at the pool last night,” he says.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you thought of anything since then?” he asks. “Any suspicious activity around you? Things going missing from your dorm, friends acting out of character?”

“No, sir,” Dormer says. “There’s nothing.”

Well, he wasn’t expecting much, but he does have to ask. Further pressing reveals that Dormer considers the top students his friends. He says things are competitive, but not violently so.

“This isn’t Operations,” Dormer points out, then seems to remember exactly who he’s talking to. “No offense.”

“None taken.” It’s the truth, after all. Grant never needed to resort to sabotage to stay at the top of his class, but that doesn’t mean his fellow students didn’t try it against him. He hands the tablet to Dormer. “All these names you would consider friendly?”

Dormer looks at the list. “Well…not Donnie Gill.”

That’s a little suspicious, since Gill was the other kid at the pool, but Dormer’s pretty sure that Gill’s not the guy. He says Gill is standoffish, but insists that it’s just typical genius anti-social behavior, not a sign of malice.

He’s about to ask how long Dormer and his friends had been planning to go to the pool after class when he’s distracted by screams coming from inside the auditorium.

“What’s going on?” Dormer asks.

“Stay here,” Grant orders, and heads inside. He has to push his way past people trying to get out of the auditorium, which delays him a bit, but he can see over their heads, so he has an idea of what’s going on.

Unless SciTech decorates its auditorium with ice sculptures, the culprit has struck again—this time freezing a student instead of a pool. Jemma, Fitz, and Skye are gathered around the iced student, obviously trying to help him or her, and Grant calls out to them.

“Something’s do this to him,” Fitz yells. “Find it!”

Figuring the device must be close, he begins searching under the surrounding seats. He’s vaguely aware of Skye doing the same in the row behind him, but ignores her until she says his name.

“Ward! There it is!” He turns to look where she’s pointing and spots the device tucked under one of the seats. He pulls it into the aisle, but hesitates over what to do with it. Will destroying it stop its effects or make them permanent?

Skye, apparently wondering the same thing, asks Fitz what to do next.

“Smash the damn thing!” Fitz shouts.

Grant stomps on it, and the ice on the cadet shatters and falls off—revealing that the student in question is Donnie Gill.

So…probably not the culprit, then.

\---

Grant leads a few of the Academy security guards in a search of the auditorium, looking for any other devices, while Jemma and Fitz examine the remains of the device that was used against Gill. Skye, meanwhile, questions Gill while he gets checked over. All of the other cadets have been removed from the auditorium and are being individually questioned by the rest of security.

None of them turn up anything. Gill can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt him. There are no prints or traces on the device. No one saw anything suspicious.

However, the attack does suggest one thing: Gill was the original target, not Dormer, as they thought. It makes sense—after all, Gill was at the pool first, and if he usually spends time there alone, someone who wanted to hurt him may not know that he goes to the pool to study, not swim.

Weaver tells them that Gill doesn’t have any enemies that she knows of, but he doesn’t have any friends, either. She says he’s a genius, near Jemma and Fitz’s level, but having difficulty adjusting. He’s apparently on his way to the Sandbox—if he doesn’t wash out first.

That sparks a thought. Maybe someone _wants_ Gill to wash out. The Sandbox is the ultimate posting for the SciOps crew, and if Gill’s classmates know he’s headed there, they might be jealous. More importantly, there are only a limited number of positions. This is one case where a cadet might be served well by eliminating the competition.

He orders Weaver to continue interviewing cadets and instructors, mostly to get her out of the way. As he tells Skye, SHIELD _teaches_ cadets to keep secrets—if any of them know anything, they won’t be sharing. Not in an interview, at least.

Their best bet is to speak to the cadets in a relaxed environment, somewhere they’re comfortable, where they won’t be on guard and watching their words as closely. It’ll be difficult—Grant and Skye are clearly outsiders, while Jemma and Fitz are rock stars, whose presence will only put the cadets on edge—but he has a thought on how to accomplish it.

“Where did you guys hang out when you wanted to…get away from the faculty?” he asks Jemma and Fitz.

“Can we tell someone from Operations?” Jemma asks Fitz.

“Yes,” Grant answers. “Because we need to conduct our own investigation.”

He waits until they’re out of the building to speak more, not wanting to be overheard. As they go, he considers his options. Gill won’t be going to any of the cadet hang-outs, not after being attacked. Actually, based on what they’ve heard of him, he probably doesn’t spend any time there on good days, either. They’ll need to go to his room to interview him, but who to send?

Judging by what Dormer said about Gill having difficulty speaking to anyone with an IQ below 170, Grant won’t get much out of him. Jemma or Fitz would be better options. They both clearly sympathize with him, as an isolated genius who’s so much smarter than even his peers here at the genius school, and Jemma definitely has more of a way with people than Fitz does, but…

Gill’s a teenage boy, and Jemma’s a beautiful woman whom he almost definitely looks up to. She’d be lucky to get three words out of him. He’ll send Fitz. They have more in common anyway, since, as far as Grant recalls, Gill leans more towards engineering than biochemistry.

“So, we’re going to join the students in the place they go to get away from the faculty,” Jemma says as they leave the building. “And when we get there?”

“We mingle, low key,” he answers. “You and Skye get comfortable with the students, see if you can get them gossiping. Skye looks young enough to blend in.”

Actually, Skye might _be_ young enough to blend in. He doesn’t know that any of the team have ever gotten her actual age out of her.

“You’re not exactly Old Man River,” Skye argues, apparently taking offense. Considering how many cracks she makes about him being old, it’s a little strange. “And Fitz looks younger than us.”

“Time will come when you won’t make fun of me for that,” Fitz tells her, also offended. “You’ll be jealous. You’ll be jealous, wrinkly old hags.”

This is not a new argument, and he knows exactly where it’ll go, so he interrupts before it can devolve any further. Telling the others that he wants Fitz to go speak to Gill, and the reasons behind the decision, gets its own strange reaction. As Fitz walks away, Jemma and Skye just stand there, smiling at Grant.

He’s used to Jemma smiling at him. Skye, not so much. Especially this kind of smile, like he’s just saved an orphaned kitten from a fire or something.

“What?” he asks. “It’s strategic.”

“It’s _adorable_ ,” Jemma corrects.

“The Tin Man has a heart after all,” Skye agrees.

There’s really no dignified way to respond to that, so he just walks between them and asks where they’re going. There’s a muffled giggle, and then they fall into step on either side of him. Jemma slips her hand in his and changes their direction slightly.

Apparently, they’re headed for a boiler room, which SciTech cadets have been using as a hang-out since the sixties. Skye, of course, approves of the tradition of sneaking away from the watchful eyes of SHIELD to play cards and drink, but it’s not like Grant can say anything against it. The Operations Academy had its own hang-outs, and he spent his share of time in them.

“Some amazing breakthroughs have come out of here,” Jemma tells them as she leads them down a long flight of stairs. “So the tradition lives on.”

“Of cramming into the boiler room?” Skye asks dubiously.

In answer, Jemma opens the door, revealing that the boiler room is far from cramped. It honestly looks more like a club than anything else—complete with strobe lights and a bar. They stand on the catwalk for a moment, taking in the room.

Jemma is blatantly smug. “Do you have one of these at Operations?”

“No,” Grant admits, shaking his head slightly. There are lab tables and computers, as would be expected of a hang-out spot for a bunch of geniuses, but there are also arcade games and a pool table. It’s a bit crowded for his taste, but his classmates at the Academy would’ve killed for a place like this.

“Did _not_ think so.”

“Drinks are on me,” Skye tosses over her shoulder as she walks away.

“It’s a shame,” Jemma says before he can follow Skye.

“What is?”

“Oh, well,” she sighs, leaning against the railing. “Academy regulations forbid fraternization between cadets—even soulmates. So, this is the only place soulmates attending the Academy are allowed to spend time together. I always hoped to bring my own soulmate here someday.”

“Here we are,” he says, bumping her shoulder with his.

“Here we are,” she agrees. “Working a case.” She shakes her head. “And, of course, when I imagined this, I never thought it would involve sharing SciTech secrets with a member of _Operations_.”

He has to smile at that. “Well, in the interest of fairness…”

“Yes?”

“Ops doesn’t have a boiler room,” he says. “It has a basement, which is _freezing_ in the winter. And the basement doesn’t have a pool table, or computers, or a bar.”

“What does it have?” Jemma asks.

“Three decks of cards and a cabinet for contraband.”

“No,” Jemma says.

“Yes,” he insists. “The biggest problem was, most of the contraband was food, since we weren’t allowed junk, and if it got left in there too long we’d get rats.”

Jemma claps a hand over her mouth, but doesn’t quite manage to stifle her laughter.

“I guess Operations just isn’t as rebellious as SciTech,” he concludes, looking around. “We wouldn’t have had the nerve to make a place like this.”

“Nothing can halt scientific progress,” Jemma says. “Not even protocol.”

“To be fair,” he says. “If we were caught with this stuff, we would’ve been given twenty laps around the campus, not…atomistic attribute drills.”

Jemma beams. “You remembered!”

“What?” he asks. “I listen.”

He takes her hand and tugs her away from the railing, brushing his fingers over her timer.

“Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,” he says. “Pretty sure Skye’s gonna get carded.”

\---

Three hours later, they’ve still got nothing. None of the cadets are particularly eager to talk to Grant about anything other than Jemma. Apparently, word’s gotten around that the famous Jemma Simmons has a specialist soulmate, and these genius kids are fully capable of connecting the dots.

Jemma strikes out, too, since all the cadets want to talk to her about is her work. They’re full of questions about her discoveries and inventions and theories, and she can’t redirect them to the attacks, or to Donnie Gill. It’s pretty much all on Skye and Fitz, at this point.

Eventually, Jemma retreats to a table in the corner, obviously hoping to deter the cadets from asking her any more questions. Surprisingly enough, it works, and the two of them sit there for a while, watching Skye chat up the bartender.

(Seriously, they have a _bartender_. His instructors would’ve murdered them all.)

Eventually, Skye gives him a nod, and he knocks back the rest of his drink.

“You want another?” he asks Jemma.

“Yes, please,” she says, attempting (horribly) to sound casual. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” he says, then crosses the room to join Skye at the bar.

She’s been posing as a computer science operative working at the Sandbox, and by questioning the bartender has found out that the girl playing pool hopes to be assigned there. On its own, that’s not suspicious, but add in the fact that she just lost the top spot to Donnie Gill and she looks like a suspect.

And that the girl in question just _happens_ to be Callie Hannigan, the girl that didn’t want to go in the pool before the first attack, well…she looks downright guilty.

He joins her at the pool table, spins a story about looking for operatives for a shadow team, and, when she falls for it, learns that Gill and Dormer probably consider nearly being frozen worth it, since it meant they got to meet Fitz.

She says they’ve been talking about meeting Fitz for weeks, and, considering the fact that they only set course for the Academy ten hours ago? _That_ is cause for concern.

He heads back to the table, catching Skye’s eye as he goes, and she follows.

“Well?” she asks. “Is Callie guilty?”

“Call Fitz,” he orders Jemma.

She doesn’t argue, just pulls out her phone.

“They staged the attacks,” he tells them. “Apparently, the boys have been talking for _weeks_ about meeting Fitz.”

“They wanted him here,” Skye realizes. “For what?”

“Fitz,” Jemma says urgently into her phone. “They _staged_ the attacks.”

Fitz obviously asks why, because Jemma continues a moment later. “To lure us to the Academy and to take them off our radar as suspects! You need to get out of there. He’s after _you_.”

She’s obviously frantic—no surprise there—but after a moment she relaxes and gives them a nod. Fitz must have left Gill’s room already. She lets out a little sigh and hangs up the phone.

“It’s okay,” she says. “He’s on his way here.”

“Good,” Skye says, relieved.

“That still leaves the question of why they wanted him here,” Grant points out, drumming his fingers on the table.

He’s itching with the urge to go fetch Fitz himself, to make sure he makes it safely to the boiler room, but he can’t risk leaving Jemma here with only Skye to defend her. Just because the kids have been talking about meeting _Fitz_ doesn’t mean they don’t have a use for Jemma. After all, where one goes, the other usually follows.

But they don’t know what Gill and Dormer _want_ with Fitz. If they just want to pick his brain, it’s one thing. If they want to hurt him…how much damage can two cadets do to a fully trained SHIELD scientist?

That’s not the right question.

The right question is, how much damage can two fully prepared cadets do to an unsuspecting SHIELD scientist who failed his field test?

“How many ways are there to get to the dorms from here?” he asks Jemma, interrupting the theorizing she and Skye have been doing about Gill and Dormer’s motives.

“Just one,” she says.

“Let’s go,” he decides. “We’ll meet Fitz on the way.”

“You think they might hurt him?” Skye asks, even as she and Jemma stand.

“I think we don’t know enough,” he corrects. “We don’t know what they want, what they’re willing to do to get it, or if they have accomplices.”

“We can’t risk it,” Jemma agrees. “Come on.”

“Call May,” he orders Skye as they head up the stairs. “Find out where they are and how soon they can be here.”

“No answer,” she reports a few minutes later.

“Keep trying.”

The closer they get to the dorm building, the tenser the three of them become. May and Coulson still aren’t picking up and, more disturbingly, there’s no sign of Fitz anywhere.

“We should’ve run into him by now,” Jemma frets as they reach the building. “He was already leaving when I called.”

Grant pulls out the tablet containing the list of top students and taps Gill’s name.

“Gill’s in room 308,” he says.

“Good, let’s go,” Jemma urges. He catches her arm to keep her from moving past him.

“Stay behind me,” he orders. “Both of you.”

“Walk quickly, then,” Jemma snaps.

He leads the way into the building and up the stairs, keeping on guard for any suspicious movement. The halls are deserted—most of the cadets either at the boiler room or in bed, he guesses.

They’re only a few rooms down from Gill’s when the door opens, and Grant tenses, bring his gun up, but it’s unnecessary. Fitz stumbles out, one hand pressed to his head, and Jemma rushes forward.

“Fitz,” she cries. “What happened? Let me see your head.”

“I gave them what they needed,” Fitz groans. “I’m so bloody stupid.”

“What did they need, Fitz?” Grant asks.

“Power problem,” Fitz says, ducking away from Jemma. “They have a much larger version of the freezing device, and I told Donnie how to make it work.”

Okay, that’s bad.

“Seth shot me with a tranquilizer of some kind,” Fitz continues. “When I woke up, they were gone, and so was the device.”

Shit.

“All right,” he says. “I’m calling in Weaver; we’ll get Academy security on this.”

He gives Weaver a very brief summary of the situation, and orders her to set up a perimeter and then send a security team to the dorms. They’ll have to sweep every building—inefficient, but it’s really their only option. He’s just returning his phone to his pocket when Skye’s rings.

“It’s May,” she says, relieved, and answers it. “Where have you been?”

She obviously gets no answers, and hangs up a minute later, clearly frustrated.

“No word on what they were doing that’s so important,” she says. “But they’re here now. They’re parked in the field where we landed this afternoon.”

“Okay,” Grant says, thinking quickly.

He doesn’t want to send the three of them off on their own, but a moment of reflection proves that that’s emotional, not tactical. Gill and Dormer only wanted Fitz so he could solve their power problem, and now that he’s done that, they have no reason to bother him, or Jemma. The three of them will be fine and, strategically speaking, he doesn’t have time to escort them anywhere.

He takes a deep breath. “Take the SUV, go back to the Bus. Coordinate with May and Coulson. I’ll run the search here.”

“Right,” Skye says. “We can do that.”

“Be careful,” he orders, handing her the keys.

“Yeah,” she nods.

He looks at Jemma. “You be careful, too.”

“And you,” she says. “Please don’t get shot again.”

“You kidding?” he asks. “I _just_ got rid of my stitches. No way I’m getting more anytime soon.”

She smiles a little, and he squeezes her shoulder. Academy security is approaching from the end of the hall.

“Go on,” he says. “Keep me updated.”

“Yeah, likewise,” Skye says.

\---

Hours later, they haven’t found any sign of the cadets, or their giant freezing machine. The team has learned one thing, though: the boys didn’t just build the thing on a whim—they’re being funded by Ian Quinn, of all people. Grant really hoped, after Malta, that they’d heard the last of him, but no such luck.

With the new information about Quinn, attitudes about the missing cadets have shifted somewhat. Knowing that Quinn’s involved make the boys look less like supervillains-in-training and more like unwitting dupes. Which is great and all, but doesn’t really matter, because knowing they’re not bad kids doesn’t help him _find them_.

They’re just clearing yet another building when Grant receives a text from Jemma.

_Device activated_ , it says. _Storm building._

He leaves the building, followed closely by Weaver, and watches in amazement as clouds build rapidly above them. The wind is picking up, and seconds later, it starts to hail. Hard. First the size of golf balls, then baseballs—then basketballs, and that’s when they run for cover in the next building.

The wind is howling as they shut the doors behind them, and the electricity is flickering. He’s completely lost, here: he thought this was just a bigger version of the device that froze the pool (and Gill). So why did it make a _storm_? Shouldn’t the whole city be under a layer of ice, à la _Frozen_?

Whatever.

Halfway through the night, he sent a member of the security team to the Bus to pick up his comm so that he could stay connected to the team. He activates it now.

“It’s pretty bad out there,” he says. “How long is this going to last?”

“At _least_ as long as the device is active,” Jemma replies after a moment.

“Yeah, and it’s only gonna get worse,” Fitz continues.

“The Academy isn’t built to withstand these conditions,” Jemma says. “You need to find shelter.”

“Right,” he says. “No problem.”

He deactivates his comm, thinking furiously. It’s not just him that needs shelter—the last thing they need is a dead cadet.

“Agent Ward?” Weaver asks.

“Jemma and Fitz think the storm is only going to get worse,” he tells her. “We need to get the cadets somewhere safe, where they can ride it out.”

She frowns briefly, then straightens. “The boiler room!”

Of course. It’s underground, with one very sheltered entrance and solid concrete walls.

“Good thinking,” he says. “Let’s go.”

They’ve already got Academy security in every building, searching for Gill and Dormer, and they pass the word along through their radios to round up the cadets and take them to the boiler room. Getting there’s not easy—the storm is, as predicted, steadily worsening. The wind is hurricane force, so bad that at one point Grant has to tug a cadet out of the way of a flying trash can.

At least the rest of the team is safely on the Bus.

It takes nearly an hour, but eventually they have all of the cadets safely sheltered in the boiler room. The storm intensifies the entire time, and he’s starting to worry. They need to stop the device before the entire campus is destroyed.

Coulson contacts him for an update, and he reports that they’ve got everyone safe in the boiler room as Weaver shouts for the kids to get away from the door. There’s another danger, here, if they can’t keep the kids calm—there’s only so much space down here, and just a few unsettled cadets could turn the boiler room into a mosh pit. Or a stampede.

“How bad is this going to get?” he asks.

“Bad,” is the entirely unhelpful answer. “Can you reach the north campus parking garage? We think Donnie Gill and his device may be trapped in the center of the storm.”

He heads for the door before Coulson even finishes speaking.

“That’s not far from where I am,” he says. Coulson, a graduate of the Ops Academy, doesn’t know where the boiler room is. “I can get there.”

Opening the door makes a liar out of him. The wind is brutal, trees nearly bent in half from the force of it, and he knows there’s no way he can make it.

“Yeah, I can’t get there,” he tells Coulson.

He gets roped into taking roll, checking to make sure that Gill and Dormer are the only cadets not in the boiler room, and has nearly reached the end of his list when Coulson contacts him again.

“Ward?”

“Yes, sir?” he asks, forcing his way through the crowd to a somewhat quieter corner.

“We have a plan,” Coulson says brightly. Grant recognizes that tone—Coulson’s about to do something crazy.

“Do I want to know, sir?”

“Probably not,” Coulson admits. “We’re going to the north parking garage.”

“Sir, the storm—”

“We’re not driving,” Coulson interrupts. “We’re flying. We’ll go over the storm and then make a vertical landing through the eye of it.”

For a moment, Grant is actually speechless at just how ridiculous that plan is.

“I don’t suppose I can talk you out of that, sir?”

“Nope,” Coulson says. “We’ll keep you updated.”

Okay. So. He’s stuck here in the boiler room with several hundred cadets and some very nervous adults. His soulmate and the rest of his team are about to fly _over and into_ a storm. There’s absolutely nothing he can do about anything.

If anything happens to his team, he’s going to do something rash. Rash and violent. Most likely to Ian Quinn, but possibly also to the people in charge of SciTech, because _really_? How do you _not notice_ that two of your cadets are building a giant storm device?

This is what happens when you value science over discipline. Fucking SciTech.

He’s got literally nothing else to do, so he returns to taking attendance. It’s difficult, in the crowded chaos of the boiler room, but eventually they determine that all of the cadets are present, save Gill and Dormer.

The storm is still getting worse, and at one point the building actually begins to shake. He sincerely hopes this plan of Coulson’s works, because if it doesn’t…

Well, it’ll be hard to get revenge if he’s buried underneath an entire building.

But eventually, the shaking stops. The howling of the wind fades. The power stops flickering.

Those are encouraging signs, and he heads up the stairs to the door. One of the security agents is already looking outside.

“The storm is ending, sir,” the man reports, moving aside so Grant can see for himself.

Sure enough, the clouds are dispersing slowly, and the wind has died down to nearly nothing.

So why hasn’t he heard from the team?

“Agent Coulson?” he asks, activating his comm.

A long moment passes with no answer, and he’s starting to get seriously concerned when Coulson finally speaks.

“Yeah, Ward,” he says. “The device has been destroyed. We’re on our way back to the field where we originally parked.”

He doesn’t sound happy about it.

“Sir?” Grant prompts.

Coulson takes a deep breath. “We’ve got Donnie in custody. Seth suffered cardiac arrest while trying to turn off the device. Attempts to revive him were unsuccessful.”

Shit. Obviously it’s horrible that a cadet is dead, but Grant’s a little more concerned with the first part of that sentence. He’d bet his life that those were _Jemma’s_ attempts to revive him that were unsuccessful. Meaning that while he was stuck down here taking attendance, Jemma just lost a patient. And for all that she insists she’s not that kind of doctor…

She’s not going to take that well. She’s not going to take it well at all.

He can’t do anything from here. “What are your orders, sir?”

“Let the cadets out of the boiler room,” Coulson says. “The storm’s over, there’s no more risk. Then you and Weaver should join us. I’m calling HQ for orders in regards to Donnie.”

“On our way, sir,” he says.

He’s itching with impatience, but he manages to stick around long enough to assist with the cadets’ exit from the boiler room. There’s only the one door, and after being stuck in here together, the kids are eager to leave. He and the security agents force them to maintain an orderly exit, and eventually the room is empty.

He fills Weaver in on what he knows on the way to the Bus. She’s solemn at the news of Dormer’s death, obviously deeply affected, and waits until they reach the field to ask what will happen to Gill. He tells her that Coulson’s calling HQ for instructions, then excuses himself to find Jemma.

Gill and Fitz are in the cargo bay—Gill sitting in a jump seat staring blankly at the wall, Fitz hovering over him uncertainly. There are two Academy security agents currently removing a body bag that must contain Dormer, and he knows Jemma can’t be far.

Sure enough, she’s in the lab, sitting at her workstation with her head in her hands.

“Hey.”

“Oh, Grant,” she says, sitting up and clearing her throat. “You’re back! I didn’t—I, um…”

He doesn’t wait for her to finish stammering, just tugs her out of her chair and hugs her. She returns it almost desperately, her arms wrapping tightly around him and her hands clenching in his suit jacket.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Jemma takes a deep breath, then another. “We got to him too late. There was nothing—there was nothing I could do.”

“I know,” he says. He wonders which of them she’s trying to convince. “You did everything you could.”

“I tried,” she insists.

“Of course you did,” he agrees.

“It just wasn’t quick enough,” she continues. “If we had just—”

“Jemma, hey,” he interrupts. He pulls back a little so he can make eye contact. “You did your best. It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” she says, nodding. “I know that, of course it’s not.”

She may know it, but she certainly doesn’t believe it. Like so many things, though, there’s no quick fix for this. He has a feeling she’s going to be dealing with this for a while. And, judging by the way Fitz is currently following Gill off the plane, she’s not the only one.

He’s not going to be able to talk her out of her guilt. Not right now, at least, when Dormer’s body has only just been removed from the cargo bay.

So all he says is, “Good. As long as that’s clear.”

“It’s clear,” she confirms.

“Good,” he repeats. He tucks some of her hair behind her ear, earning a little smile. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. Join me for a nap?”

He knows she has to be just as drained as he is; neither one of them slept last night. He was busy searching the campus for Gill and Dormer, while she and Fitz were attempting to find a way to counteract the device’s effects.

“Sleep sounds lovely,” she says quietly.

He leans down and kisses her, because he has to. Because he can’t not, when she looks so tired and so sad.

He means for it to be brief, but she gets up on her toes and laces her fingers in her hair, and it turns quickly heated. He goes along with it willingly, falling into the taste and the feel of her, and when they finally pull apart, they’re both out of breath.

“So,” she says, stepping back from him. “About that nap.”

“Lead the way,” he says, motioning to the door.

Jemma keeps up a steady stream of chatter as they head upstairs to his bunk, telling him about what she and Fitz found in the Centipede files the day before yesterday, and she does a pretty good job of keeping her tone casual. But she has a white-knuckled grip on his hand, and she’s lacking the enthusiasm that usually accompanies discussion of science.

She’s rattled. She can play casual, but the fact that she failed to save Seth Dormer’s life is going to haunt her. She has guilt issues already—he remembers all too well the weeks after she nearly died from the Chitauri virus, how she was plagued by nightmares of all the things that could’ve gone wrong, all the ways the rest of the team could have died, and how convinced she was that it would’ve been her fault if they had.

He has a feeling those nightmares are going to make a reappearance, and it makes him hurt for her. It also makes him furious. Jemma doesn’t deserve to suffer. Not ever, but especially not because two well-intentioned cadets were led astray by a bad influence.

As they change and climb into bed, Grant makes himself a silent promise. The next time he sees Ian Quinn, he’s going to shoot him in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The side-story should, as I said, be up soon.


	13. TRACKS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma nearly got kidnapped three weeks ago, and Grant is not pleased. He's even less pleased to learn that Coulson wants to take her back into the field so soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks so much for all of the comments and kudos! They really mean a lot.
> 
> Second, I posted a side-story last Saturday called "we're arm in arm (as we sing away)". If you haven't read it already, please **read that first**. You can understand this chapter without reading it--or at least I think so--but this chapter does make reference to the events of that story, and future chapters will, as well. So, please check that out if you haven't already.
> 
> I think that's all. Thanks for reading, and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Things on the Bus are slightly tense. Grant knows he’s a major part of that; he’s been having serious difficulty controlling his temper, and the team is walking on eggshells around him, trying not to set him off.

Or, well, Fitz and Skye are, at least. Coulson and May are actually making things worse—Coulson, who keeps doing his empathy thing at Grant, more so than May, who keeps giving him disappointed looks at his failure to maintain his calm.

He really _is_ trying. It’s just not easy to follow May’s control techniques when the first thing he sees every morning is the still-fading bruise on Jemma’s face. Add to that the frequent nightmares—both hers and his—and he thinks he should be commended for his control. After all, it’s been two weeks since Jemma was nearly kidnapped, and he hasn’t killed a single person.

The nightmares are pretty much what one would expect. Jemma dreams of the kidnapping attempt succeeding, of being tortured the way Coulson was, of Skye being killed trying to save her—and, still, of the cadet who died three weeks ago. Grant, on the other hand, dreams of Jemma dying. Sometimes at the hands of the kidnappers, sometimes at his own hand. Once at Garrett’s, twice at Coulson’s, and once, bizarrely enough, at Claudia’s.

He knows enough about how his mind works to interpret most of the scenarios—he’s afraid that he’ll do something to get Jemma killed, that Coulson will get her killed by making a bad call on a mission, and that Garrett’s mission will interfere with Grant’s ability to protect Jemma, leaving her vulnerable—but the last one has him completely baffled. His subconscious is really getting paranoid if it thinks Jemma has anything to fear from Ashton’s kindergarten-teaching soulmate.

He’s started getting up an hour earlier every morning, so he has time to work out the worst of the night’s rage before Jemma joins him in the cargo bay. He always thinks himself in circles while he does—it’s annoying, but he can’t stop his mind from revisiting the same ground, over and over again.

Namely, the kidnapping attempt.

He knew as soon as he heard Coulson mention cyanide that the men who tried to kidnap Jemma were HYDRA agents. He went downstairs fully intending to call up Fury and tell him all about the secret organization that was hiding within his organization. He was completely drowning in his rage that anyone _dared_ to lay hands on Jemma—that some goddamned bastard had the nerve to actually _hit_ her, hard enough to leave a bruise that bad. And that that selfsame bastard then killed himself, depriving Grant of the pleasure of _skinning him alive_ , well…

After a few hours with the punching bag, however, he managed to get enough control back to think logically.

HYDRA has no reason to go after Jemma. She’s long since been marked as pointless for recruitment attempts—HYDRA has analyzed her as less than a tenth of a percent chance of turning—so it wouldn’t try to take her for that. And while it’s true that Jemma has a lot of classified scientific knowledge, Alexander Pierce—the Secretary of Defense, for crying out loud—is a member of HYDRA. He’s Level Ten; there are no secrets from him.

In the same vein, Jemma’s expertise on the topic of Centipede is irrelevant—Grant doesn’t believe for a second that the raids carried out during Coulson’s kidnapping took out more than a fraction of Centipede’s resources. After all, SHIELD found the Centipede bases through Vanchat’s selling history, and it’s not like _every_ Centipede lab was taking delivery from the man.

So HYDRA has no reason to kidnap Jemma. And if it was so _monumentally_ stupid as to try and kill her, a half-assed kidnapping attempt like the one she and Skye described would not be the way it tried.

So, the kidnappers may have been HYDRA, but they weren’t acting on HYDRA’s orders. Which leaves Garrett. Centipede is, after all, nominally part of HYDRA, and Garrett is highly placed enough to borrow a few HYDRA agents for a mission, if he has the need.

But _why_ would Garrett try to kidnap Jemma? And why send regular thugs and not his Centipede soldiers? For the first question, he has nothing but vague suspicions. When it comes to the second question, though, there are three possible explanations.

The first is that Garrett underestimated Skye’s ability to protect Jemma, which Grant considers possible, but unlikely. After all, as her Supervising Officer, he’s been submitting reports on the progress of her training to SHIELD—reports that Garrett certainly has access to, as a Level Eight operative. He even has a ready-made excuse to look at them, since it’s only reasonable that he would wonder how his former trainee is doing with a trainee of his own. And it’s not like Garrett to underestimate _anyone_. So, while it’s possible he held back his Centipede soldiers out of pure arrogance, it’s not likely.

The second explanation is that there were no Centipede soldiers available. Grant hasn’t been in touch with Garrett at all since this assignment began, so he has no idea how many Centipede soldiers Garrett has, or what he has them up to. It’s a reasonable explanation, but it, too, strikes Grant as unlikely. After all, Garrett is a master strategist. He always plans twelve steps ahead, and it’s hard to believe that he wouldn’t have planned to keep at least one Centipede soldier free in case of emergencies—or sudden desires to kidnap innocent scientists, at least.

The third, and most likely, explanation is that Garrett didn’t _want_ the kidnapping attempt to succeed. It would explain a lot—as a whole, the kidnapping attempt was incredibly sloppy. Jemma’s description of the attackers’ inept attempts to impersonate SHIELD agents made it sound like the men had never so much as seen one before, and since HYDRA agents _are_ SHIELD agents…

If it was a _deliberately_ terrible attempt, that explains the HYDRA agents failing so miserably. It also means that the attackers probably aren’t actually dead—the rapid response team that SHIELD sent out was likely HYDRA, as well. They simply waited for the men to regain consciousness, then let them go. The autopsy photos were probably mocked up beforehand—they’re really not that hard to fake—and the men’s identities wiped clean, so that SHIELD (and, more importantly, Skye) wouldn’t find anything on them.

HYDRA likely has the men set up with new identities somewhere, laying low until the search for information on them dies down. In a few months, maybe a year on the outside, they’ll be back in action, working for the ‘glory’ of HYDRA.

He’s seen it happen before, more than once.

The obvious benefit—namely, that Grant can still track down and _punish_ the man who hurt Jemma—aside, this theory still leaves him with a lot of questions. If the kidnapping attempt was deliberately unsuccessful, it means that Garrett didn’t actually want Jemma kidnapped—he just wants them to _think_ he wanted her.

Why?

This is what he’s been fixating on, these past two weeks. Why would Garrett want the team to think that he’s after Jemma?

The only idea that he’s been able to come up with is that it’s a warning. It’s entirely possible that Garrett’s got something new brewing, something that might put Jemma in danger, and by making a half-assed kidnapping attempt, he gives Grant justification for keeping Jemma out of things.

If that’s the reason (and it really is the only one he can think of) then Grant appreciates the gesture. But they’re still going to have to have a talk, the next time they’re in a position to speak freely, about Garrett’s methods. Grant’s glad of the excuse to keep Jemma safely on the Bus, but he is _not_ happy with the injuries she sustained. There’s going to have to be a reckoning about that.

Speaking of Jemma, he’s pulled from his thoughts by the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. She’s taking them carefully, one hand clenched around the railing as she makes her slow way down.

Jemma’s the other reason that things are tense on the Bus. Her face is nearly healed, but her ribs are still in fairly bad shape, and it’s affecting her work.

She can only manage about five hours in the lab before the pain in her ribs gets to be too much. It’s far better than the first few days, in which she could only take an hour or two before needing to lie down for the rest of the day, but it’s nowhere near her usual work day, and it’s driving her crazy.

She has plenty of narcotic painkillers on hand, which would help with the pain a lot more than the over-the-counter stuff she’s been taking, but she says they mess with her head.

So her options are to either work until she can’t stand the pain, or take relief from the pain and be unable to work at all because she can’t think straight. It’s really upsetting her, and more than once she’s been driven to tears by the combination of pain and frustration.

Grant’s keeping count. Every time she cries means an extra hour of pain he’ll inflict on the man who did this to her. And he will _definitely_ be having words with Garrett about his methods.

In the meantime, all he can do is support Jemma—and get ready. If Garrett went to all the trouble of staging a (pathetic) kidnapping attempt, whatever’s coming must be big.

\---

It’s another week before he finds out exactly what Garrett’s got brewing. Jemma’s doing better—she’s working eight-hour days, now—but she’s still in pain, and it still pisses him off.

However, he’s finally (mostly) regained control over his rage, and that, combined with Jemma’s ability to work longer hours, means that things on the Bus are a lot less tense. The rest of the team has, at least, stopped looking at he and Jemma like one of them might snap at any moment.

It’s Monday night and, aside from Coulson, who went up to his office earlier, the team is hanging around the cabin area. Skye’s in the briefing room—nothing new there, she’s been working on tracking Ian Quinn like he owes her money—while May is in a window seat, reading something on her tablet.

Grant is at the kitchen table, playing Life with Jemma and Fitz. It’s one of the board games they ruled out, weeks ago, as unsuitable for team activity, but Jemma didn’t have to try too hard to talk the two of them into giving it another chance.

She doesn’t have to try very hard to get anyone to do anything, at the moment—everyone is falling all over themselves to make her smile, Coulson included. May’s a little less blatant, but Grant doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that she just _happened_ to decide to make Jemma’s favorite meal for dinner. But, hey, it’s not like he has any room to talk. He’s pretty pathetic over her even when she’s _not_ injured.

Oh, well. At least the game is less likely to devolve into throwing plastic children at each other when Skye’s not involved.

There’s no shortage of snarky commentary, though.

“Summer school, Fitz?” Jemma chides. “Really? You should spend _time_ with your children, not send them off for more schooling.”

“Look to your own life, Simmons,” Fitz suggests, nodding to Jemma’s car. “And lay off of mine!”

The little blue peg representing Jemma’s character’s husband has fallen out of the car, and she picks it up with a little frown.

“Do you suppose that means he’s died?” she asks, playfully concerned.

“Yeah,” Fitz nods. “Definitely.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Grant says, insincerely, as he spins the spinner.

Jemma gives him a narrow-eyed look. “Did you have something to do with this?”

“Jealousy is a terrible thing,” Fitz says, shaking his head in mock sorrow. “Terrible thing.”

“I never said I was involved,” Grant defends, holding up his hands. “I’m sure he died of perfectly natural causes.”

“Perfectly natural,” Fitz mutters. “Like blood loss?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist upon a post-mortem,” Jemma decides. “I need the closure.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna do that,” Grant disagrees, amused. “It might…taint your memory of him.”

“Don’t listen to him, Simmons,” Fitz advises. “He’s hiding something.”

He’s about to claim innocence again when Coulson comes down the stairs.

“Briefing room,” he orders.

They hurriedly box up the game, then follow Coulson into the briefing room, where they find the screen covered in pictures of Ian Quinn.

Grant has the feeling he’s finally going to find out what Garrett’s got going.

Sure enough, Skye has managed to track a purchase that Ian Quinn—someone that they now know works for the Clairvoyant—recently made from Cybertek. The team, of course, is entirely unaware that Cybertek is working with Centipede, so nothing about it strikes them as odd.

For Grant, it’s like giant neon letters spelling out the word TRAP.

Quinn’s ten million dollar purchase from Cybertek is being transported on a train through the Italian countryside—another indicator that something is wrong, since Cybertek generally delivers things by air, like a normal company—and Coulson thinks that following the package will lead them to Quinn. However, the package is travelling with a _lot_ of security, and Coulson thinks their best bet is to go undercover.

May’s unhappy, but Grant’s entire career has consisted of undercover work, so he’s fine with it. Or at least, he is at first.

“May and Ward, you’re front and center. Once we locate the package you’ll tag it with a tracker.”

Yeah, he can do that.

“Skye and Fitz, you’ll be running communications. After the package is tagged, we’ll follow it to Quinn.”

Sounds reasonable enough.

“Once we capture Quinn, we’ll be one step closer to the Clairvoyant.”

This is _definitely_ a trap—Cybertek? Cooperation from the authorities? A _train_?—so he has a feeling they’ll be a hell of a lot more than _one step_ closer.

“And what about the two of us, sir?” Jemma asks.

“We’ll be tagging the head of security so he can lead May to the package.”

Wait. What?

“No,” he says, almost involuntarily.

Everyone looks at him. Too late to back out now.

“I mean, uh, Jemma’s still injured, sir,” he points out. “She should sit this one out.”

Jemma gives him a distinctly unimpressed look, but it’s Coulson who responds.

“All she has to do is sit in a seat here,” he says, tapping at the holocom to bring up the train’s floor plan, and then indicating a specific car. “Stand at the right moment, and spill something on the head of security. She won’t exert herself at all.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Grant says. “No plan survives contact with the enemy. Things get unpredictable in the field.”

“I’ll be with her the whole time,” Coulson says. “If things get out of hand, I’ll take care of it.”

The rest of the team is looking back and forth between them, heads swiveling like it’s a tennis match, and Jemma is looking unhappier by the moment. But Garrett staged an entire kidnapping, and this _has_ to be the reason why. He can’t let Jemma go on this op.

“The last time Jemma went out in public, she almost got kidnapped,” he reminds them. “We still have no idea who was behind it. What if they try again?”

“Grant, you’re being ridiculous,” Jemma bites out. Oh, yeah. She’s angry. “We’re going undercover. No one will know who I am.”

“Jemma,” he says, reaching for patience. “You can’t lie.”

“I’ll be with her the whole time,” Coulson repeats. “We need all hands on deck for this, Ward. It’s the best lead—the _only_ lead—we’ve got on the Clairvoyant.”

He can tell he’s testing Coulson’s patience, and if Jemma were a slightly more violent person, she would’ve hit him three sentences ago. But this is a trap. This is _unquestionably_ a trap. And the last time Garrett set a trap for them, Grant got shot and Coulson got tortured. How much worse is this going to be, if Garrett went to the trouble of giving him a way to keep Jemma out of it?

He’s only got one more card to play, and it’s risky. It _could_ jeopardize whatever plan Garrett’s got going here, and that’s the last thing he wants to do. But if he doesn’t play it, then Jemma goes on the op, and that can’t be allowed.

So he takes a deep breath and points out the obvious. “Sir, the last time we got a lead on Centipede, it was a trap.”

He feels it’s a particularly relevant point, since this _is_ a trap, but apparently it’s a step too far for Coulson.

“My office,” he orders sharply. He barely glances at the others as he continues. “The rest of you are dismissed. We need to be at the station at 0700 tomorrow, so we’ll hold the final briefing at 0500. Get some sleep.”

Jemma is the first to leave the room, and she does so in a huff. Fitz darts a nervous glance at Grant and then follows her out.

“Let’s go,” Coulson says, and leads the way out of the room.

Skye passes Grant’s arm sympathetically as he passes her, and he thinks that she, at least, is on his side in this. She certainly was uncharacteristically quiet during that argument, and if she disagreed, she would definitely make it clear.

He struggles with himself as he follows Coulson up the stairs. He _can’t_ allow Jemma to participate in this mission. Not with what he knows. She’ll be in danger on this op. It’s the only explanation. Garrett wouldn’t have put on that farce of a kidnapping attempt unless it was important, and it can’t be a coincidence that he’s setting a trap for them less than a month later.

If only this had happened last week, Jemma’s participation wouldn’t even have come up as an option. He never thought he’d regret her health improving, but…

Damn it.

When they enter the office, Coulson leans against his desk and crosses his arms. He looks a little calmer now, more sympathetic than angry, but he’s still obviously not happy.

“You’re emotionally compromised,” he says flatly.

Grant considers that for a moment. Is he? He knows for a fact that if he allows Jemma to participate in this op, she’ll be in danger.

But she’s always in danger. It’s part of field work. Hasn’t he been over this with himself before? It’s better to have Jemma with him, in danger, than to be without her. He can’t stop her from doing field work—even if he got her removed from Coulson’s team, she’d just go find another one, one where he couldn’t keep an eye on her. She’s _always_ in danger. He’s accepted that.

This time is different, though. It keeps coming back to the kidnapping attempt—Garrett pulled that for a reason, and _this_ is that reason.

Isn’t it?

He’s not thinking strategically. He interrupted the briefing with the argument, so he only knows the bare bones of Coulson’s plan. He doesn’t know how well the plan will do without her, or how her absence will affect it.

But does the plan even matter? It’s a _trap_ , for crying out loud.

One thing is certain: Coulson’s right. He’s emotionally compromised.

“Yes, sir,” he agrees finally. “I am.”

Coulson sighs, dropping his arms to brace himself against the desk. “It’s understandable. And I sympathize, I do.”

“But?”

“But your exemption to the fraternization regs is contingent upon your ability to remain detached,” Coulson says. “We need Simmons on this op, and if you can’t get it under control, we’re going to have a problem.”

Grant drops into a chair and scrubs a hand over his face.

“I know, sir,” he says, resigned.

He won’t be able convince Coulson to keep Jemma out of this. Coulson doesn’t know what he knows—about the mission _or_ the kidnapping attempt—so he has no reason to believe that Grant is being anything other than overprotective and emotional right now.

“It’s just…”

“It’s just that she’s your soulmate,” Coulson offers, entirely sympathetic now. “And I’m taking her into the field three weeks after she was nearly abducted.”

“We still don’t know who was behind that,” Grant points out—technically true, as _he_ does, but _they_ don’t. “Or how they knew where Jemma and Skye were going to be.”

“I’ll be with her the whole time,” Coulson says for, what, the third time? Grant is very impressed with his patience. “ _If_ anything happens, I’ll take care of it.”

He’s not gonna win this one. And Coulson’s right—if he can’t get a handle on this, Coulson will have no choice but to revoke their exemption, and _that_ is something Grant can’t allow.

Garrett tried to give him a way to keep Jemma out of this. That means that whatever the trap is, it’s got nothing to do with her. He’ll just have to hope that that means she won’t get in the way of it…and trust Coulson to watch her back if she does.

“Okay?” Coulson asks. “You good?”

“Yes, sir,” Grant says, standing. “I’m good.”

“Excellent,” Coulson says, clapping his hands. “Now that that’s settled, I think you have some groveling to do.”

No kidding. He remembers the look Jemma gave him earlier and has to hold back a wince. _That_ is not going to be a fun conversation.

“Yes, sir,” he says. “I should…get on that.”

Coulson nods. “Yep.”

He finds Jemma in the lounge, sitting on the couch next to Fitz while Skye perches on the coffee table in front of her. The three of them are embroiled in a heated conversation—about him, judging by the way they go silent when he approaches.

“Hey,” he says, feeling more than a little awkward under Skye and Fitz’s stares.

“Hello,” Jemma says, somewhat frostily.

“Well, that’s our cue,” Skye says brightly, standing. “Fitz? Why don’t you show me the…thing? That you were talking about before?”

It takes Fitz a moment to catch on. “Right. The _thing_. It’s…in the lab.”

“To the lab we go then,” Skye says. “Later Ward, Simmons.”

Fitz allows himself to be dragged out of the lounge, but not before giving Grant a very pointed look—the kind of look that suggests that if he doesn’t fix this soon, he’ll find himself being used as a test subject for Fitz’s latest weapon prototype.

Usually he’d be amused by Fitz attempting to intimidate him, but right now he’s more concerned with Jemma.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

“Yes, I think we’d better,” she agrees quietly.

He takes a seat on the table in front of her, not sure if she’ll welcome him sitting right next to her at the moment. He’s kind of at a loss here; he and Jemma have never really argued before. Oh, they’ve had disagreements, sure, but most of the conflict in their relationship has been external—Chitauri viruses, Asgardian berserker staffs, that kind of thing.

Usually a lack of arguments would be a good thing, but it means that he doesn’t know what Jemma’s like when she’s truly angry. Which means he doesn’t know what the best way to calm her down is.

Might as well start with the direct approach.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Jemma just looks at him.

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable,” he continues. “I _know_ you’re an asset to this team. But in the field, you’re…” He realizes that that sentence is headed in a direction which could, from a certain perspective, be considered an insult, and changes tacks. “You were nearly kidnapped less than a month ago, and you’re still injured. You’re struggling right now, and I…I worry. That’s all.”

Jemma remains tense and blank-faced for a moment after he finishes speaking, then loosens, slumping back against the couch and shaking her head.

“Oh, Grant,” she sighs. “I know that you worry about me. That’s not why I was angry.”

The _was_ is an encouraging sign, but the rest of the sentence has him lost.

“It’s not?”

“No,” she says. “Of course not. I know that my injury has made things difficult for you—although I feel compelled to add that it’s certainly made things even more difficult for _me_.”

He nods, because he knows it’s true.

“I entirely sympathize with your desire to keep me out of the field,” she continues. “That’s not what upset me. What upset me was the way you went about it.”

He’s still lost. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ that if you have concerns about my participation in field work, you should bring them to me,” Jemma says patiently. “Rather than attempting to override our commanding officer in the middle of a briefing. That was very high-handed of you, and I _don’t_ appreciate you going over my head right in front of me.”

Well, when she puts it that way…

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to disrespect your…agency.” It’s kind of a pun, which is why he hesitates—this isn’t really the moment for humor—but she and Skye throw the word around sometimes when something on the news gets them upset, and he thinks she’ll appreciate the proof that he listens. “But you’re not upset anymore?”

“Apology accepted, and no. I _was_ very angry when the briefing ended,” she says, looking slightly sheepish. “And then Skye reminded me that I did essentially the same thing, a few weeks ago. Before…well…”

It takes a moment to click, and then he completely understands her sudden hesitance. She’s talking about DC, the meeting right before he and Coulson left for a short fact-finding mission. She and Skye both put up a fight about it, trying to get them to stay on the Bus—they were suspicious of the secrecy, since the last time two of the team were sent alone on a classified mission, Grant and Fitz nearly died.

At the time, he was a little annoyed by the argument and more than a little touched by the concern, but he and Coulson went on the mission, anyway. Of course, he regretted it later, since while they were gone, Jemma and Skye decided to go sightseeing, which ended in Jemma nearly being kidnapped.

“Right,” he says. “You did do that.”

“And I apologize,” she says. “Both for the hypocrisy and for disrespecting _your_ agency.”

He has to smile at that. “Apology accepted. I guess it’s something we’ll _both_ have to work on.”

“Or we could just quit field work entirely,” she suggests with a rueful smile. Neither one of them will be giving up this team anytime soon, and they both know it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Or that.”

He’s suddenly exhausted. He knows there’s no way he’s keeping Jemma out of the op tomorrow, and while it tests the control he has over his rage, it also terrifies him. Right now, she’s in so much pain that she can’t even get _dressed_ without his help. What’s she going to do if she needs to run? _Can_ she run?

He pushes that aside, for what is probably the first of many, many times. All he can do is hope the trap leaves her untouched, and trust Coulson to protect her if it doesn’t.

Of course, the last time Garrett set a trap for them, the target _was_ Coulson, but…chances are he’s not the target this time. After all, the team had an entire month off—a month that Coulson spent alone and vulnerable, already in pretty horrible condition. Garrett could easily have grabbed him then, if he didn’t get what he wanted the first time. No, whoever this trap is aiming to catch, it’s not Coulson. Probably.

This would be so much easier if he were in contact with Garrett.

Whatever. The point is, he’s exhausted, and tomorrow is doubtlessly going to be a very, very long day.

“So, are we okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jemma nods. “We’re okay.”

“In that case,” he says, standing. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for bed.”

Her eyes dart to the clock on the wall, and then she sighs.

“I suppose tomorrow _is_ going to start early,” she says, allowing him to help her off the couch. “If the briefing is at five, we need to be up at four.”

“I sure hope this plan of Coulson’s isn’t too complicated,” he muses. “Half the team’ll still be asleep when the train leaves the station.”

\---

The plan, as it happens, _is_ complicated. Not overly so, true, but considering the fact that all they need to do is follow a package to its destination? It’s strangely elaborate.

If the head of security—a man named Carlo Mancini—has even the barest ounce of competence, he’s going to be patrolling the train. Jemma and Coulson will be in one of the main cars, posing as father and daughter transporting their wife/mother’s ashes to be scattered. When Mancini approaches, they’ll stage an argument and Jemma will stand to storm away at precisely the right moment to ‘accidentally’ spill the ashes on Mancini.

Of course, they’re not going to be ashes. The urn actually contains a mix of chemicals designed to give off a specific heat signature (with a few other things mixed in, to make them _look_ like ashes). This leads to Grant and May’s part of the plan.

The two of them will be posing as a couple, with tickets for a first-class overnight compartment. Or at least, that’s their cover for getting _on_ the train. Once they’re in the compartment, May will go out the window and onto the roof of the train, while Grant changes into a conductor’s uniform.

On the roof, May will use thermal imaging goggles to trace the heat signature Mancini will be giving off after getting covered with the fake ashes. She’ll be able to follow him to the package, which is where Grant comes in. Using the cover of a conductor, he’ll visit whichever car the package is in and tag it with a tracker.

Then Fitz and Skye, who will be set up with their gear in the luggage car, will electronically follow the tracker once the package is removed from the train. The hope is that it will lead them to wherever Quinn is hiding out, at which point Jemma and Fitz will hang back while the rest of them move in to take Quinn into custody.

That part of the plan is puzzling him, a little. Not that Jemma and Fitz are hanging back—that was never in question; there’s a big difference between going into the field and participating in a full assault—but that Skye _isn’t_. Sure, he’s been training her for months now, and she did prove herself pretty well during the attempted kidnapping, but…

She’s been weirdly gung-ho, lately. Not just in her endless search for Quinn, to which she’s been more dedicated than he’s ever seen her with anything, but with her training, too. She stopped slacking a while ago, but all of the sudden she’s started working twice as hard. _Something_ has got her pushing herself, but he doesn’t know what.

It’s more than just the little push he gave her towards trusting SHIELD when they visited the Academy. That might be part of it, sure, but it doesn’t account for her sheer determination, the endless effort she’s suddenly started putting in to every aspect of her training—not just the strength training and the sparring and the weapons practice, but the lessons on protocol and procedure, too.

There’s something go on with her, and Coulson definitely knows what it is. He’s not talking, though, and Grant’s been too busy worrying about Jemma to push him.

Speaking of worrying about Jemma…

“Be careful,” he says quietly.

The Bus is parked in a hangar a few miles from the station, and this is where they go their separate ways. Coulson and Jemma will be taking Lola to the station, while Skye and Fitz take a cab and Grant and May have a hired car coming to pick them up. It’s entirely necessary—they can’t maintain their covers if they all show up to the station together—but it makes him nervous. This whole thing makes him nervous.

It’s a trap. There is absolutely no question that this is a trap. And not only is Grant letting Jemma walk into it, he’s letting her do it without him. He’ll be several cars away from her, and if anything goes wrong…

Trust Coulson, he reminds himself. He has to trust Coulson. He _can_ trust Coulson—wasn’t it Coulson who came for Grant and Fitz, when they were stranded in South Ossetia with no hope of survival? If there’s one thing he can count on, it’s that Coulson will watch the team’s backs.

Jemma will be fine. Coulson will be with her the whole time. When things go wrong, he’ll take care of her.

As for the rest of the team…

Grant has no idea what Garrett’s goal is this time. He can’t predict what’s going to happen today, not with the way he’s been totally in the dark on Centipede’s movements since he began this assignment. But he knows that whatever Garrett’s got going, he’ll have a good reason for it.

Trust Coulson. Trust Garrett.

He can do that.

“I will,” Jemma promises. “If you do the same.”

“Of course,” he says. “I’m always careful.”

Jemma’s face clearly shows what she thinks of _that_ , but there’s no time for banter. It’s time to go; the team is moving out.

All Jemma has to do is stage an argument and spill some ashes. She’ll be fine. And if anything else happens, Coulson will have her back.

“Good luck,” she says, and all he has time for is a brief kiss before he has to join May outside.

She’ll be fine.

\---

The plan goes well, at first. Jemma successfully spills the fake ashes, May successfully follows the trail, and Fitz successfully locates the package using the feed from May’s goggles.

That’s when things start to go wrong.

Grant finishes changing just as the package is located, and leaves the compartment, tucking the tracker into his pocket. When he alerts May that he’s headed for the dining car, though, all he hears over the comms is static.

Looks like the trap’s been sprung.

Deep cover means that he proceeds as he would if he had no idea what’s going on. He has to take all possible action to get the mission back on course, and if that interferes with Garrett’s goal, well…Such is the way of deep cover ops. Occasionally, you have to work against your own interests.

If he didn’t know that this was a trap, his first thought would be technical error, so he tries the comms twice more. Both attempts fail, which means he moves on to the second theory: sabotage. The best course of action to take is to locate Coulson (an attractive option, since it means locating Jemma, too), but before he can do so, a woman steps out of a compartment further down the car.

She requests his assistance with her suitcase, and while he tries to brush her off, she’s persistent. Refusing to help her will draw attention, possibly causing more of a delay than the three seconds it will take to help, so he gives in. He picks up the suitcase (which is, in fact, _incredibly_ heavy) and carries it into the compartment.

He senses more than hears the movement, has a split second to realize that she’s just drawn a gun, and turns quickly, hitting the woman in the face with the heavy case. It knocks her back, but before he can take her down, a man bursts out of the en-suite bathroom, and Grant has to turn away from the woman to block the man’s swings.

He knocks the man into the wall easily enough, but it puts him in an awkward position, and the woman manages to slice him in the arm before he can stop her.

Two against one in cramped quarters are not great odds, but Grant’s faced a lot worse than this, and eventually he knocks both of the attackers out. He tries the comms again, but they’re still down, so he exits the compartment and heads for the car Coulson and Jemma are in.

He moves through the train quickly, keeping his hand pressed to the cut the woman managed to inflict on him. It’s on his right upper arm, high enough to sting when he moves but not high enough to actually interfere with his range of motion, and he’s grateful for that—although, obviously, he would’ve preferred not to be injured at all.

He’s already annoyed by the injury, and it does not help his temper _at all_ to walk into the car and see Jemma sitting alone. There had better be a _very_ good explanation for Coulson’s absence.

Jemma straightens as he approaches, her eyes fixed on his arm, but he doesn’t give her the chance to ask about it.

“We’ve been made,” he says flatly. “Comms are down. Where’s Coulson?”

“He went to the dining car to find the package,” she says. It’s dismissive; her attention is fully focused on his injured arm, and he thinks she misses the way his hand clenches on the back of the seat at the information.

 _I’ll be with her the whole time_ , he said. Apparently not. He and Coulson will be having fucking _words_ later, for sure—Grant was trusting him to watch over Jemma, and what does he do? He leaves her, alone and injured and with no way to contact the rest of the team, at the first sign of trouble.

Oh, yeah. There’ll be words, all right.

He pushes his anger away; there’s no time for it, not now. He needs to get Jemma somewhere safe, find Coulson, and try to salvage this mission.

Cybertek knows they’re here, and the team is far outnumbered. Jemma’s in no condition to run, which means she needs to hide. Somewhere defensible, somewhere—the luggage car. Fitz and Skye are there, and he knows for a fact that Skye, at least, is armed.

“You’ve been hurt,” Jemma is saying, reaching for his arm. “Let me take a look.”

He stops her, grabbing her hands and holding them tight. “Not now. Go to the luggage car. Lock yourself in with Fitz and Skye. _Don’t_ come out until I get you. I’m gonna get Coulson.”

He thinks that last sentence comes out a little more ominous than he intends, but Jemma doesn’t seem to notice. She just nods, pulling off her glasses and standing, then squeezes past him, running for the luggage car. He watches her go, fighting the urge to follow her and take her off the train, rest of the team be damned.

She’ll be fine.

The door has no sooner closed behind her than three men stand from where they’ve been sitting at the back of the car. One of them is Mancini, so it’s probably safe to assume the other two are his men, and they’re looking at Grant like they know exactly who he is.

There are too many civilians here; if it comes to a fight, they’ll get in the way. He turns and leaves the car at a brisk walk, well aware that Mancini and his men are closely following.

He heads for the dining car. Why not? With any luck Coulson will be there, and Grant can kill two birds with one stone; let Mancini’s men get a few hits in on Coulson, to express Grant’s displeasure at finding Jemma alone, before he and Coulson team up and take them down.

Speaking of Jemma, it was nice of Mancini to wait until she was gone to make his move, wasn’t it? Orders from Garrett, most likely, and while Grant certainly appreciates the sentiment, it puts him a bit on edge, as well. And not only because singling Jemma out like that will be cause for serious suspicion if Mancini gets captured and decides to talk.

First the warning in the form of a kidnapping attempt, now (possibly) orders to keep his men from harming her. If Grant’s suspicions are correct, Garrett’s going to more than a little trouble to keep Jemma from getting hurt in this trap of his.

Which is great and all, but that means that someone is _supposed_ to get hurt. Garrett’s aiming to injure someone, here, and he’s going out of his way to make sure that it’s not Jemma. Grant appreciates that, he does, and it almost makes up for Jemma’s bruised ribs— _almost_ —but it’s got him completely confused, because why would Garrett want to injure a member of the team?

(And is there any way Grant can maneuver things so that the victim is Coulson? Not just because of how he _left_ Jemma after promising he’d be with her the whole time, either—Grant is strangely uncomfortable at the idea of Fitz, Skye, or May being the ones injured.)

There’s no time to think about it any further, though. He reaches the first dining car and, since there are no civilians around whose suspicion he needs to avoid arousing, breaks into a run. Mancini and his men run after him, and he bursts through the door into the second dining car to find Coulson standing next to a table, looking around uselessly.

“Ward!” Coulson calls.

“We’ve been made,” Grant tells him—entirely unnecessary, since Mancini is right behind him, but it’s better than demanding to know what the hell Coulson was thinking, leaving Jemma alone like that.

He glances over his shoulder, and what he sees nearly stops his heart at the same time that it sends his temper spiking.

Fuck fucking _fuck_ , that’s a goddamn grenade, and he can’t protect Jemma if he’s not on the train but he also can’t protect her if he’s _dead_ , so they’re going to have to jump. He shares this information with Coulson, and the two of them throw themselves out of the open door at the back of the car, hitting the ground hard and rolling with the impact.

Mancini leans out the back of the car and tosses the grenade after them, and Grant barely has time to think _oh, shit_ before it detonates, and the train vanishes in a cloud of blue smoke.

What. The. Fuck.

Grant’s seen a lot of weird shit in his time with SHIELD, but an entire train disappearing right off the tracks _absolutely_ takes the cake, and for a brief moment he’s too stunned to feel anything else.

He pushes himself to his feet and moves closer to the tracks, staring at the empty space where the train _used_ to be.

“The train,” he says uselessly. “It just…”

“Yep. Vanished,” Coulson completes, and just like that, Grant’s shock is gone, replaced by worry (and anger, of course, but that’s pretty much a constant, these days).

Jemma is still on that train. And just because Cybertek didn’t take the opportunity to hurt her earlier is no guarantee that they’re going to avoid hurting her at all.

Fitz and Skye are on the train, too, and Skye’s come a long way, but she's not fully trained yet. How long can she be expected to defend herself _and_ Jemma _and_ Fitz, when she’s got no way of knowing exactly what she’s up against? What are the chances that the three of them will stay in the easily defensible luggage car instead of leaving it to try and join up with the rest of the team?

When no one comes for them, they’ll assume the rest of the team has been captured or severely injured. They won’t be content to sit and wait in the relative safety of the luggage car then. No, they’ll go searching for Grant, May, and Coulson—try to save them or protect them or what _ever_ stupidly brave untrained scientists and hackers think they have to do for fully trained specialists and field agents.

Speaking of field agents, Coulson’s still talking, and Grant is just about at the end of his patience with this man.

First he insisted on bringing Jemma on this op, even though he _easily_ could have spilled those ashes on Mancini himself. Then, he left Jemma _alone_ , even though he _promised_ he would be with her the whole time. Now the train has disappeared with half of their team—the _vulnerable_ half of their team, no less—on it, and he’s joking around.

Grant takes a moment to focus, putting his rage aside like May taught him. The last thing he needs right now is to blow up at Coulson—it will only serve as proof that Grant is emotionally compromised, and that will put his and Jemma’s exemption in jeopardy.

Once he’s sure he has a hold on his temper, he speaks.

“I told Jemma I’d come back for them,” he says. It sounds a little more accusatory than he means it to, but if Coulson notices, he doesn’t comment.

“May’s there,” he says instead. “They’ll be okay.”

Unfortunately, it’s at about that point that Grant notices the thermal imaging goggles May was wearing earlier. They’re lying in the brush, abandoned, and they’re not damaged at all. Usually, that would be a good thing—these things are expensive, and while the team has a fairly large budget, they do tend to be pretty rough on their equipment—but there’s no way the goggles could’ve been tossed from the train without getting a scratch.

These weren’t dropped from a moving train. Chances are, May’s off the train, too, and she ditched the goggles because she doesn’t need them anymore.

Which means a) May is MIA, and b) Jemma, Fitz, and Skye are alone on the train.

Great.

Coulson stumbles forward a little, apparently still stiff from their jump off the train. Good. Grant hopes he’s really hurting.

“Is your phone working?” Coulson asks.

He pulls it out of the inner pocket of his jacket and gives it a try.

“No,” he says. “Cybertek must have taken out our electronics.”

Cut them off from each other, take out their communications…It’s what Grant would do, if he were running the op. Divide and conquer’s a classic for a reason.

It’s a smart move—exactly what he’d expect from an op being run by Garrett—but right now Grant’s wishing Cybertek were a little less effective. He’s also wishing that he had managed to figure out a way to keep Jemma out of this op, but he forces himself to shove that aside. He’s not going to get anything done if he keeps worrying about Jemma. He has to compartmentalize.

She’s fine. She’s with Fitz and Skye. They’re her best friends; they’ll have her back, just like she’ll have theirs. They’re all fine. Really.

Coulson pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and uses it to pick up part of the grenade that was thrown at them. The grenade that _somehow_ managed to make the entire train disappear right in front of their eyes.

“Not a grenade, exactly,” Coulson comments, as if reading Grant’s mind. “Might be some kind of cloaking mechanism.” He brings it up close to his face, squinting at it.

“Maybe it…created some kind of portal?” Grant suggests. He’s completely at a loss, here. “Jumped the train there.”

“Ah, let’s hope not,” Coulson says. “I can’t deal with Asgard today.”

Frankly, Grant will deal with whoever it takes, as long as Jemma makes it out of this mostly unscathed. And Fitz and Skye, obviously. And May.

Coulson’s welcome to get as hurt as he likes, though. _I’ll be with her the whole time_ Grant’s ass.

…Okay, apparently his compartmentalization could use some work. He takes a deep breath and focuses on putting away his rage and his worry. It won’t help him here. He needs to think like a specialist, not a soulmate. Preferably a specialist who _doesn’t_ have inside information on the enemy’s movements. Speaking of which…

“Cybertek knew we were coming,” he says. It’s obvious, and he knew it was true going in, but it needs to be said. “How?”

“Could've been the Clairvoyant,” Coulson says quietly.

Well, yeah.

Before he can think of a way to respond to that, they’re distracted by the sound of approaching vehicles. Chances of them being driven by friendlies are very, very low, and they don’t stick around to double check. They head off into the conveniently placed vineyard beside the tracks, trusting the overgrown plants to hide them from view.

They need to get back to the Bus, ASAP.

Of course, the problem with hiding in a vineyard is that everything looks the _same_. And with their phones down, they don’t have access to SHIELD’s all-purpose GPS positioning tech to help them find the nearest road. Hell, they don’t even have Google Maps.

So they wander the rows for a while, looking for a way out, and Grant doesn’t know about Coulson but he, personally, is feeling _really_ pathetic. Seriously, getting lost in a vineyard? Somewhere, John Garrett is shaking his head in shame, and he doesn’t know why.

Actually, he probably does. Grant would _not_ put it past Garrett to have eyes on them right now. He still doesn’t know what Garrett’s endgame is with this trap—but thinking of that leads to thinking of Jemma, so he stops before he can get very far with that train of thought.

Damn it. What a stupid expression.

Grant’s starting to consider desperate measures when they come across a truck, parked among the plants like it belongs there. It probably does—it’s got a flat bed, probably good for harvesting things, likely in the large plastic crates stacked behind it.

“Keys might be in it,” Coulson says—rather optimistically, Grant feels.

Grant just shakes his head.

“It’s the country,” Coulson defends, making for the truck. “People are very trusting in the country.”

‘Trusting’ is one word for it—the keys aren’t in the truck, but it _is_ running. It’s been hotwired. Who hotwires a vehicle and then leaves on foot? Pretty suspicious, as far as Grant’s concerned, although, naturally, Coulson’s more inclined to think of it as fortuitous.

They’ll just have to take the chance that this is part of the trap; they need to get back to the Bus so they can work on tracking down the train.

\---

The drive passes in silence. Luckily, the train didn’t get very far from the station before they had to jump off it, so it doesn’t take long to get back to the Bus. When they get there, they find the holocom in the briefing room flashing with an alert for an incoming emergency call, and Coulson wastes no time in accepting it.

Disappointingly, it’s not one of the team. It is, in point of fact, no one that Grant recognizes. Coulson seems to, though, and listening to the conversation is enough for Grant to fill in the blanks.

This man—Russo—is Coulson’s government contact, the one whose investigation the team took over. He says that Cybertek knew they were at the station and that most of his men are dead, but Grant has the feeling that Russo’s in with Cybertek. There’s no real reason for that feeling, nothing in the conversation to tip him off, it’s just…a hunch.

Coulson promises to send the Bus’ coordinates to Russo so he can join them and work on figuring this out, while Russo promises to put his people on looking for the train.

After disconnecting the call, Coulson says he’ll call HQ, and gives Grant the piece of the grenade he picked up at the scene.

“You take this,” Coulson says. “We need to figure out what the hell happened to that train.”

Grant’s glad for the excuse to get away from Coulson for a while—he can feel his temper fraying at the edges, the leash on his control of his rage just waiting to snap—and he gratefully takes the grenade fragment down to the lab.

Of course, being in the lab doesn’t really help his temper—he spends a lot of time down here, keeping Jemma and Fitz company while they work, and it pisses him off to see it so silent and empty. But he’s not angry for very long, because he’s quickly distracted by his efforts to work the holotable.

He manages to turn it on easily enough—he’s seen Jemma and Fitz do it a hundred times, he knows where the switch is. Unfortunately, that appears to be all that he’s managed to pick up. He gets the various projections cleared off and the grenade in place, but then he stalls.

Before he can start trying anything—‘anything’ here meaning ‘poking things at random in the hopes that it will make stuff happen’—Coulson enters the lab, bearing news. SHIELD pulled up satellite imagery, and apparently the train’s gone. They’re checking alternate routes.

What follows is something that Grant can never, ever, _ever_ allow Fitz to find out about. Or Skye. Or Jemma, even, because she would _definitely_ tell the others, and they would _never_ let him live it down. Coulson has the protection of rank, but Grant would be a fair target, and no amount of extra push-ups or threatening stares would be enough to stop Skye and Fitz from mocking him _forever_.

So, no one can know about his and Coulson’s pathetic attempts—and even more pathetic failures—to work the holotable. Ever.

“Let’s just…upload the specs to HQ,” Coulson suggests eventually.

“Good idea,” Grant agrees. And if, in the process, he just so happens to _accidentally_ erase the last five minutes from the lab’s security feed…

Well, he’s distracted. Who could blame him?

However, he doesn’t get the chance to upload the specs _or_ delete the footage, because it’s at that moment that a car pulls up at the bottom of the ramp. He and Coulson exit the lab and approach the ramp as Russo gets out of the car.

“Agent Coulson!” the man calls, starting up the ramp. “It’s going to be all right. We found your people. The train, it’s, uh—”

He cuts off in the middle of his sentence, blood bubbling out of his mouth, and falls forward, revealing the knife buried in his back. May’s standing at the bottom of the ramp, obviously the source of the knife, and she looks like she’s been through hell and back.

She _also_ looks like she’d like nothing better than to kill the both of them.

“Wheels up in five,” she bites out.

“You okay?” Grant asks. It’s a stupid question, but someone has to ask it, and Coulson’s still stuck on May killing Russo. He demands an explanation, and May’s got a hell of one.

“The train didn’t disappear. Russo sold us out.”

\---

After they get the Bus in the air and May gets a shower, she fills in a few blanks for them. Apparently, the grenade didn’t actually make the train vanish. Instead, it froze Grant and Coulson in some sort of suspended animation, where they appeared to be in perfect health but didn’t react to any external stimuli. May, after getting shot off the train, found the two of them by the tracks, and left to get them transportation.

 _She’s_ the one who hotwired the truck they found, but before she could come back for them, Russo’s men captured her. She brushes over that part of the story, although judging from her condition it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Instead, she tells them that Russo has been working with Cybertek, making sure their products get moved without interference from the authorities.

She also says that Russo was looking for Grant and Coulson, specifically. He apparently made no mention of Jemma, Fitz, and Skye. But is that because Cybertek isn’t interested in them? Or because they already have them?

They’ll find out soon enough—SHIELD contacts them while Coulson is stitching May up to inform them that the train has been found, stopped suddenly in the Italian countryside. Grant volunteers to set the coordinates, since things are looking weirdly intense between May and Coulson.

Also, he needs something to do. They’ll reach the train within ten minutes, and he feels like he’s about to crawl right out of his skin with his worry for Jemma.

He also takes the time to change out of his conductor’s uniform and into his tac gear. It’s possible that they’ll find Jemma, Fitz, and Skye on the train and that will be the end of it, but it’s not likely. After all, this was a trap, and as far as Grant can tell, it hasn’t caught anything yet.

\---

SHIELD is already on site when they reach the train, and the agent-in-charge (Santoro) is ready and waiting to give Grant an update. Apparently the train parked fifteen minutes ago, and the agents on the ground have no idea why. There are confused passengers milling about the scene, and Santoro says they’re still taking account of them, matching names on tickets to faces, and running background checks on all of them to make sure none of them are connected to Cybertek.

He does say (apologetically, and with a wince that suggests Grant’s reputation has preceded him) that there’s no sign of Jemma, Fitz, or Skye on the train. Grant manages to keep his tone mostly calm as he thanks Santoro for his time and excuses himself, but he’s fighting to keep his grip on his anger as he walks away to join May and Coulson, standing off to the side.

They’re fine. Jemma ran right past Mancini and his men, and they didn’t even twitch towards her. There’s no reason to believe they’d go after her.

Except this was a goddamn _trap,_ which Garrett went out of his way to give Grant a chance to keep Jemma out of. Something Grant entirely failed at.

He shoves his rage down, again, and fills Coulson and May in. He’s just finished saying that there’s no sign of the missing members of their team when Coulson stops in his tracks, staring up at the train. Then he starts moving again, hurrying to board the train without offering an explanation.

Once they’ve boarded the train, Coulson indicates the luggage car. The door is closed, and if Santoro and his agents failed to check this car after being specifically told that it was Jemma, Fitz, and Skye’s last known location, Grant is going to have _words_ with the man.

Grant leads the way in with his gun drawn, May and Coulson right behind him. The car is silent, no sign of anyone, and there’s something a lot like panic starting to build in Grant’s chest, because if Jemma’s not here, he has _no idea_ where she could be—they have literally _no_ other leads.

His panic is _not_ helped by the discovery of the laptops set up on a table near the window, screens pierced by multiple bullet holes.

Grant is starting to give serious thought to shooting Coulson _in the face_ for his part in this debacle when he’s distracted by a clatter. Jemma pops up out of nowhere—was she on the ground? Why?—shouting and shooting the night-night pistol.

The three of them dive for cover.

“Simmons!” Coulson yells. Grant’s still trying to find his voice, as the panic and rage twisting in his chest have suddenly been replaced by pure relief. “Stop!”

Jemma lowers the night-night pistol, breathing hard and spinning in place. She’s obviously completely confused, and Grant has a feeling she’s been under the effects of one of those grenades, too.

He holsters his gun and moves past May and Coulson to stand in front of Jemma. Her eyes flick over him briefly, obviously searching for injury, and then she reaches out and grabs his arm.

“Grant,” she says, still slightly out of breath, and it’s got to be hurting her ribs to wheeze like that. “Where are Fitz and Skye?”

“We don’t know,” he admits, after glancing at the ground behind her—because it would be really embarrassing to miss more than one person hiding there.

He puts his hands on her shoulders, in lieu of a hug, since between the tac vest he’s wearing and her bruised ribs, it would only hurt her. What he _really_ wants to do is drag her off this train and back to the Bus, then lock her in the Cage where she’ll be safe, but he pushes the urge away.

“Jemma,” he says. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“No,” she says. “No, I don’t think so. As to what happened…” She looks around, obviously at a loss. “I have no idea. I came to the luggage car, like you said, and there was a man with a grenade, and I—and then he and Fitz and Skye were gone and you were here.”

That’s pretty much what he expected.

“Yeah, we got hit with one of those, too,” he tells her. “Doesn’t seem to cause any damage, just puts you in some kind of frozen state for a bit. You wake up and it’s like no time has passed at all.”

It’s a measure of how worried Jemma is for Fitz and Skye that she doesn’t express even the slightest interest in how the grenade might have worked. Normally she’d be all over it, asking them questions about their experiences to compare it to hers, questioning May on her outside perspective, theorizing possible methods of achieving such an effect…

But no. Not a word. He doesn’t like it at all. He _understands_ it, of course. But he doesn’t like it.

“There’s nothing more we can do here,” Coulson says after a long pause. “Let’s head back to the Bus.”

There’s a comment on the tip of Grant’s tongue, a very rude, very _insubordinate_ comment about Coulson’s tendency to _leave_ when things get difficult, but he swallows it down.

He should’ve known to expect it. Didn’t he warn Jemma about it, just a few weeks ago? That Coulson, after giving up so completely, begging to die while he was in Centipede’s hands, would be feeling the need to prove his strength to himself? Grant should’ve expected that Coulson would make his own move instead of just sitting tight and trusting his team when things went wrong.

It still pisses him off that Coulson went and left Jemma alone, but with her standing right in front of him, alive and well, he’s a little more willing to forgive it. (Not forget it, though. He won’t be trusting Coulson with anything anytime soon.)

On the way back to the Bus, they fill Jemma in on what she’s missed. Every word increases her worry for Fitz and Skye, and by the time they pull into the cargo bay, she’s digging her nails into Grant’s hand hard enough to make him wince.

Not hard enough to make him pull away, though. There’s still a little bit of lingering panic and rage in him, after those hours of not knowing where she was or if she was okay, and keeping her close is the best way to shake off those remnants.

Jemma grimaces a little as she gets out of the car, and he has the feeling that she’s more than overdone it today.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she says with a distracted little smile. He can tell she’s still worrying about Skye and Fitz. After a moment, though, she focuses on him, frowning. “What about you? Did your arm ever get seen to?”

…No. Actually, in all of the chaos, he forgot at all about it.

Jemma seems to read the truth on his face, because she sighs.

“Come on, then,” she says, taking his hand and pulling him in the direction of the lab. “Let me take a look.”

Coulson and May follow them, presumably to strategize—they really have no clue what the next step is—and they’ve barely set foot in the lab when one of the computers starts beeping wildly, a map appearing on the screen. Jemma hurries over to it, still holding his hand, and he allows himself to be tugged along behind her.

“What is it, Simmons?” Coulson asks.

“It’s the tracker,” Jemma says, typing with her free hand. “It’s just been activated.”

May and Coulson look to Grant.

“I never had time to place the tracker,” he says. “It got smashed when we jumped off the train.”

“Fitz has a spare,” Jemma tells them, still typing. “He’s letting us know where he and Skye are!”

Grant exchanges looks with May and Coulson. His working theory was that Cybertek captured Fitz and Skye, leaving Jemma behind on Garrett’s orders, and he can tell by the looks on their faces that they were thinking the same—minus the Jemma part, obviously. But if Fitz has activated the tracker, it means he’s probably not in custody; Cybertek’s not sloppy enough to leave a genius engineer and a first-class hacker unsupervised.

“If they saw Cybertek leaving the train with the package,” May says slowly.

“They might have followed,” Coulson finishes. “Trying to get to Quinn.”

“So if they activated the tracker,” Grant muses. “Is it because they found him? Or because they got into trouble?”

“Either way, we need to find them,” Coulson says. “Fast. Simmons?”

“Triangulating now,” she says. “And…there! Found them.”

May moves closer to check the map.

“That’s nearly twenty miles from here,” she points out, frowning just a little. “Faster to fly.”

“Better get moving, then,” Coulson says.

“Wheels up in three,” she tells them, then leaves the lab at a run.

“Simmons,” Coulson starts, but Jemma shakes her head sharply.

“They may need medical attention, sir,” she says. “I’m coming with you.”

Grant squashes his immediate urge to protest. Frankly, he’d just as soon have her with them; they’re going to have to land fairly close to wherever Fitz and Skye are, and there’s no telling what kind of security the place might have. The last thing they need is to leave Jemma alone on the Bus, only to have it stormed by Centipede soldiers.

Not that the rest of the team knows for certain that Centipede is involved, here. And Grant _still_ has no idea what Garrett’s aim is. Aside from a theory that he’s trying to injure one of the team, but even that’s just based on guesswork—and, even if he’s right, it still leaves a lot of questions. Like _who_ and _why_ , for example.

“You’re right,” Coulson sighs. “But stick close to us, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Jemma nods, then turns to look at Grant. “Now, let me see your arm.”

“Jemma—”

“Just a quick peek,” she insists. “You don’t want to bleed out in the middle of the rescue operation, do you?”

He’s pretty sure that the wound isn’t that bad; when he changed into his tac gear earlier, it wasn’t even bleeding anymore. But Jemma’s looking slightly frantic around the eyes, obviously worrying about Fitz and Skye and what they’re going to find when they reach the tracker, and he doesn’t mind serving as a distraction.

So he tugs up his sleeve and lets her fuss. As expected, it’s not too bad. It doesn’t even need stitches. Jemma cleans it and puts some butterfly bandages on it, then pronounces herself satisfied.

“What about you?” he asks as he rolls down his sleeve.

“What do you mean?” she asks, pausing in the act of closing the first aid kit.

“I mean you look like you’re hurting,” he says. “You wanna take something for your ribs?”

She sighs and leans against him.

“I am hurting,” she admits. “More than a little, honestly. I don’t think paracetamol will do much good right now.”

That’s a hell of an admission, from Jemma. She must be in even more pain than he thought, and once again he has to quash the urge to ask her to stay on the Bus, instead of coming with them. He reminds himself that there’s no guarantee the Bus will be safe and shoves aside his worry.

“It’s all right,” she says, squeezing his arm. “Once we’ve found Fitz and Skye, and we’re all safely back on the Bus, I’ll take some fentanyl.”

Fentanyl’s the narcotic painkiller she doesn’t like, the one she resists taking because it makes thinking difficult. She’s _seriously_ hurting if she’s going to take it without any prodding from him, and he wonders if something happened that she didn’t tell him about. After all, he got hit with one of those grenades, too, and it didn’t do any damage.

Before he can ask, though, the Bus starts to descend. It’s a vertical landing, so it only takes a few seconds, and Coulson walks into the lab before the Bus has even finished settling.

“If Quinn’s there, we need to capture him alive,” he says. “Simmons, do we have any more night-night guns?”

“Of course,” Jemma says, moving away from Grant to open a cabinet on the other side of the room. “We’ve three more.”

“Great,” Coulson says. “You still got the one you shot at us with?”

“I do,” she confirms, entirely unashamed.

“Good. Ward, you take two. I’ll take the other.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant says, accepting two of the guns from Jemma. He’d prefer real guns—shooting someone with the night-night pistols just isn’t as satisfying, and he’s got some pent-up emotion to work out—but Coulson’s right. They need Quinn alive.

“Okay,” Coulson says, taking the other gun from Jemma as May appears in the cargo bay. “Let’s move.”

\---

It’s only a three minute drive from the field they landed in to the tracker’s location. The signal leads them to a large manor house, surrounded by trees, and Grant takes point as they close in on the signal.

He rounds a corner to see a man pointing a gun at Fitz, and shoots the guy with a night-night gun before either one of them realize he’s there. Fitz stares at Grant blankly for a moment, like he can’t process Grant’s presence, as the rest of the team joins them.

“Where’s Skye?” Coulson asks, as Jemma runs forward to hug Fitz.

“S-she, uh, she didn’t wanna let Quinn get away,” Fitz stammers, pointing at the house.

Coulson gives Grant the nod and, after a brief glance at Jemma, he circles around to the front of the house while Coulson goes in the side. The double front doors are large, but apparently not very thick; Grant can hear the murmur of conversation through them. He draws the other night-night gun, holds both at the ready, and slams his way into the house.

Quinn’s in the entry hall, along with a whole crowd of bodyguards. Poorly trained bodyguards, apparently, because even with the element of surprise, there’s no way Grant should be able to take them all out before any of them even have a chance to draw their weapons. And yet, that’s exactly what happens.

Quinn tries to run, but he barely makes it into the next room before Coulson’s there. He holds a gun to Quinn’s head and drags him back into the entry hall, slamming him facedown onto a table—either to make cuffing Quinn easier or just because he’s in a bad mood.

Quinn tries to catch himself against the table, revealing the blood spatter on his right hand, and Coulson pulls him right back up again, shoving a real gun under Quinn’s chin.

“Where’s Skye?” he demands.

Jemma and Fitz are walking in as Coulson asks, and they both pause, waiting to hear the answer.

“You know, Agent Coulson,” Quinn chuckles, oddly smug for someone with a gun pressed to his jaw. “It’s _dangerous_ …to keep sending her in like that, all alone. When she means so much to you.”

Coulson rears back and pistol-whips the guy, which Grant can’t say he saw coming, and they drop Quinn back to the table.

“Search the house,” Coulson orders. “ _Find_ her! Now!”

Jemma and Fitz go up the stairs, and Grant hesitates for a moment. Splitting up is the quickest way to search the whole house, but…

Jemma and Fitz both have night-night guns. They’ll be fine. He shoves his worry away and follows Coulson further into the house.

They split up at another staircase, Coulson heading into the basement while Grant sticks with the first floor, and it’s only a few minutes later that he hears Coulson start yelling for Jemma.

Shit. That’s not a good sign.

He races back to the basement stairs to find Jemma already hurrying down them—how did she get down here so fast? There must be another staircase somewhere—with Fitz and May on her heels. He takes the lead as they reach the basement, gun at the ready in case Coulson’s found more trouble than just Skye.

Skye is the only trouble, though. She’s soaked in blood, cradled in Coulson’s arms, and Coulson offers the completely obvious information that she’s been shot as Jemma kneels to look at her.

“Keep her upright,” she orders.

“I’ve got no pulse,” Coulson says as Jemma looks Skye over.

“Uh, she’s lost too much blood,” Jemma says frantically. “I don’t…” She trails off, looking at the strange tube at the other end of the room. “Put her in there!”

“Do you even know what this thing is?” Grant can’t help but ask, because really, what the hell is it? It looks like something out of a sci-fi movie, and he’s a little worried that if they put Skye in there she’s going to come out brainwashed.

“It’s a hyperbaric chamber and I said put her in there,” Jemma snaps. “ _Now_.”

So they do. Once Skye is in the bed—the covers are rumpled, he notes absently, so someone’s been in this thing already; who?—Jemma and Fitz fuss with the controls on the side while Coulson and May close the chamber. Grant stands by, entirely useless, and watches Jemma.

“Temperature’s dropping,” Fitz says.

“Pressure’s stabilizing,” Jemma adds.

The two of them move away from the controls, closer to the head of the chamber. Skye is still and pale, looking a little too much like a corpse for Grant’s taste.

“Is it working?” May asks, slightly frantic.

Jemma doesn’t answer.

“Is it working?” Coulson shouts.

As if in answer, Skye exhales, fogging the glass slightly. Jemma lets out an unsteady breath of her own, finally looking away from Skye to make eye contact with Coulson.

“For now,” she says. There are tears in her eyes, and she takes a moment to compose herself before continuing. “We need to get her to the Bus.”

“I’ll get the car,” May says, and books it out of the room.

Grant, Fitz, and Coulson carry the hyperbaric chamber out of the basement and up the stairs, while Jemma hovers worriedly behind them. Grant can’t help glancing down at Skye every few seconds. Her breathing is shallow, and she continues to be worryingly still. The blood on her face stands out starkly, with how pale she is, and Grant is trying very hard not to look at the wounds on her stomach.

This is bad.

May’s got the SUV waiting when they finally get the chamber out of the basement, and they fold down the back two rows of seats to fit it in. Of course, that leaves them without room to sit, and there’s still Quinn to consider.

Grant looks to Coulson for orders, but he’s silent, standing uselessly beside the SUV. Okay, fine. He exchanges a look with May, who nods and heads into the house, then looks at Jemma.

“Jemma,” he says. “You remember where we landed?”

She tears her eyes away from the chamber. “Yes, of course.”

“Okay,” he says. “You and Fitz take the SUV, get back to the Bus. We’ll grab Quinn and commandeer one of these vehicles.”

“Right,” Jemma nods. “Of course. Come on, Fitz.”

“Take that one,” Fitz advises, motioning to the car at the far end of the drive as Jemma closes up the back of the SUV. “I disabled all the others.”

“Got it,” Grant says.

He waits until Jemma and Fitz drive off, then turns to Coulson. May’s already on her way out of the house, dragging Quinn behind her, and it takes a few seconds to nudge Coulson into moving.

“We have to get back to the Bus,” Grant tells him, a little sharply. Coulson doesn’t seem to notice his tone, or that he left off the sir; he just nods and follows Grant over to the car Fitz indicated earlier.

Grant sits in the back with Quinn, mostly because he doesn’t trust Coulson not to shoot the guy. Of course, he’s plenty tempted, himself, but he’s got a little more experience controlling homicidal urges than Coulson does.

The decision to land the Bus so close to the house was a good one, even if it was, tactically, a risk. It only takes them a few minutes to reach the Bus, and they find Jemma and Fitz in the cargo bay, the back of the SUV open.

Jemma directs them to carry the chamber into the lab, and they do so as May drags Quinn upstairs. Either to the Cage or to beat the shit out of him—possibly both, but probably the former, since the takeoff warning chimes very soon after she goes.

Once the hyperbaric chamber is settled, Grant goes back into the cargo bay to close up the SUV and lift the ramp. As soon as it passes the halfway point, the Bus takes off, and May’s only a few steps behind him in reentering the lab.

No one’s wasting time, here.

The team waits in silence as Jemma and Fitz set up various pieces of equipment around the chamber. Jemma is very clearly in charge, giving Fitz quiet orders, and Grant’s eyes are drawn repeatedly to the blood on her hands.

What a mess.

Eventually, Jemma seems satisfied with the set up, and she gives them her report.

“Her core temperature’s hovering around forty-four degrees Fahrenheit,” she says, voice quiet but steady. “If we don’t bring her back up to temp in the next few hours, she could sustain permanent brain damage.” She takes a deep breath. “We need to get her to a medical facility, and fast. Until then, I’ll do everything I can to keep her alive.”

She nods slightly, then excuses herself quietly. She walks out of the lab, back into the storage area, and Grant doesn’t follow right away. He needs a minute, himself. So he leans back against the glass wall separating the lab from the cargo bay, trying to think, as Fitz excuses himself and follows after Jemma.

It’s no use, though. All he can think of is the blood on Jemma’s hands, Skye’s shallow breathing, and the hours he spent today in a panic. Giving up on thinking, he pushes away from the wall and crosses the lab to where the first aid kit still sits on a table, grabbing the bottle of fentanyl out of it. Chances are, Jemma will refuse to take it with Skye in this condition, but he has to at least try.

He’s going to at least insist that she ice her ribs, so he grabs one of the chemically activated ice packs out of the kit as well. Then he heads back into the storage area, tucking both items into his vest.

He can hear Jemma crying as soon as he leaves the lab, and takes a moment to push down the feelings the sound evokes in him. Then he follows it to one of the storage closets, where he finds Jemma sobbing into Fitz’s shoulder. Fitz is looking fairly near tears himself, and Grant makes a mental note to keep an eye on him. He _has_ to be feeling guilty about letting Skye go into the house alone, and it might lead him to do something reckless.

He leaves them be for a moment while he takes off his vest and drops it on one of the shelves. Then he claps Fitz on the shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to get his attention. When Fitz looks up at him, Grant raises an eyebrow, a silent ‘you good?’ that earns him an unconvincing nod.

He lets it go, for now, and rests his hand on Jemma’s back. It takes a few seconds, but eventually she pulls away from Fitz and turns to him, clinging to him just as hard as she was clinging to Fitz. She doesn’t pause at all in her sobbing.

Fitz gives him a grateful nod and all but flees the closet, obviously needing a moment to regain his composure.

He still wants Jemma to take something for her ribs, but she needs to calm down first. So he holds her, stroking her hair and letting her cry it out, the same way he does when she has a nightmare. He finds that it’s easier to think, with Jemma in his arms, and he can’t help the way his mind wanders back to Skye.

This is bad. Even if Jemma’s quick thinking, getting Skye in that hyperbaric chamber, keeps her alive long enough to reach a hospital…

Grant’s seen a lot of gunshot wounds in his day. He doesn’t know that even a full trauma team will be able to do anything for Skye. Chances are, she’ll be dead before dawn.

Was this Garrett’s plan? Is this what the trap was for? To kill Skye? But _why_? Skye’s not a threat to Centipede, not really. Not any more than the rest of the team is, at least. What does killing her accomplish, other than hurting the team?

Wait.

That’s it. Skye is a valuable member of their team, but she’s undoubtedly Coulson’s favorite. His pet project, even. Coulson won’t be willing to let her die, not if there’s a way he can stop it. And he _can_ stop it. Something brought Coulson back to life, and he’s not saying what. Grant’s mission was to gain his trust enough to be let it on the secret, but, four months later—although he’s fairly certain he does have that trust—Coulson’s still not talking. So Garrett’s forced the issue.

When the doctors give up on Skye, as they almost certainly will, Coulson will take her straight to whichever doctor or medicine brought him back to life. He’ll bring the whole team along, and Grant will _finally_ discover the secret that might save Garrett’s life.

Grant doesn’t want Skye to die. He started off hating her, true, and then moved to tolerating her for Jemma’s sake, but things have changed. She still gets on his nerves more often than not, and she needles him endlessly, but at this point, she’s kind of like the sister he never had (or wanted). He doesn’t want her permanently dead.

But if she dies just briefly, just long enough for Coulson to reveal the secret of his survival in order to bring her back, isn’t it worth it? Garrett is worsening, he has to be. It’s the only explanation for the way things have been escalating, the traps he’s been setting.

Skye is barely clinging to life right now. And even if she fully recovers, the trauma of this experience is going to linger. But…to save Garrett’s life, isn’t it worth it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know that the bit everyone was looking forward to--namely, Grant finding out that Jemma threw herself on a grenade--didn't happen here, but don't fret! I will absolutely be addressing that. It just didn't really fit into the flow of this chapter; after all, Jemma knows _exactly_ what Grant's going to think of that behavior, so she's hardly going to tell him about it, is she? Unluckily for her, there were witnesses.
> 
> So don't worry. It's coming.


	14. TAHITI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye's in critical condition, and the only hope she's got is the mysterious procedure that brought Coulson back to life. Also known as the whole reason Grant joined the team in the first place, so there's that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you so much for all of the comments and kudos. They mean a lot. :)
> 
> Second, I feel like this is a good time to mention two things, which may or may not apply to this chapter specifically, but which are important to keep in mind as we enter the HYDRA arc.
> 
> One: Grant’s opinions do not necessarily reflect mine. Just because he says or does something which he believes is justified does not mean that I agree, and it certainly doesn’t mean that I would say or do the same under the circumstances. I want to make that clear.
> 
> Two: As the author of this fic, I reserve to change things—or _not_ change things—as I see fit. Keep that in mind, please.
> 
> One more thing. As I’m sure you all know, the show comes back next week. I hope to have the next chapter out before the premiere, but in case I don’t, I’ll say this now: this fic will only remain canon compliant through season one. Meaning that I won’t be incorporating anything from season two. I don’t care if the premiere reveals that Ward is actually an alien from planet Chulak; it won’t affect the fic.
> 
> Okay, I think that’s it. Thanks for reading, and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

As expected, he completely fails at convincing Jemma to take some fentanyl. He has a little more success with the ice pack—after some prodding, she agrees to sit down in the lab and ice her ribs as she monitors Skye’s vitals. Of course, it’s mostly pointless, since she keeps getting up to double check the settings on the hyperbaric chamber, but he’ll take what he can get.

A very tense two hours later, Skye is safely handed over to the doctors at a SHIELD Trauma Center in Zurich. She’s alive when they wheel her into the operating theater, but she’s in bad shape, and there’s a noticeable air of desperation hanging over the team as they gather in the waiting room.

They wait all night.

Coulson spends the entire time on the phone, trying to reach Fury. May is silent, but far from stoic, and Grant has the feeling she’s making use of those rage-controlling techniques she taught him. For his part, he’s more numb than angry.

He doesn’t know what to hope for. If the doctors here are able to save Skye’s life, then he’s no closer to learning the secret of Coulson’s survival than he was this time yesterday, and all of this will have been for nothing. However, if the doctors here _can’t_ save Skye…

Coulson is obviously failing to get word to Fury. Judging by his increasing desperation, they’re on a time limit; if he doesn’t get to whatever saved his life soon enough, Skye will die permanently. Then this will still have been for nothing, and Skye will be dead. He doesn’t want that. For what it will do to Jemma, to the team, and even to him. He started off hating Skye, but he doesn’t hate her now, and he doesn’t want her dead.

There’s nothing he can do about it now. It’s out of his hands. All he can do is sit here and wait.

It’s a little after dawn when someone finally comes to speak to them. They all get to their feet as Dr. Jazuat enters the room, and Grant knows what she’s going to say before she opens her mouth. It’s written all over her face.

“How is she?” Coulson asks.

“Not good,” Jazuat says quietly. “The shots perforated her stomach and penetrated the large _and_ small intestines. We resected what we could, but…there’s been too much damage.”

Because Grant is standing right next to Jemma, he hears the slow breath she lets out at the news, and looks down in time to see her close her eyes briefly. She knows exactly what that means, and she’s already steeling herself for what comes next.

Coulson isn’t as quick. “So what’s next?”

“We can keep her comfortable,” Jazuat says. “But you’ll need to make a decision on whether or not you want to keep her on life support.”

Grant knew it was coming. He’s been counting on it, really. But hearing it aloud still hits him like a blow to the solar plexus.

“You’re saying there’s nothing to be done?” Coulson asks quietly.

“I’m saying you need to call her family,” Jazuat says. “Get them here as soon as possible.”

The words racket up the tension in the room by about twelve notches, and there’s a long moment of silence. Coulson takes a few deep breaths, obviously holding back tears.

“We’re her family,” he says finally.

Jazuat looks around the room at them. “In that case, I’m very sorry.”

It’s definitive, and Grant sinks down to sit on the arm of the chair behind him. This is it. If this doesn’t work…if Coulson doesn’t come through…if his need to maintain SHIELD’s secrets is more important to him than Skye…

It’s not just Garrett’s life on the line anymore. Now it’s Skye’s, too.

May stalks past Coulson and Jazuat, out of the room and down the hall. Grant watches after her, taking in the set of her shoulders, and thinks that Quinn might be in trouble.

Before he can decide whether he should say anything about it, Coulson clears his throat, stopping Jazuat from leaving.

“Can she be moved?” he asks.

Jazuat shakes her head, obviously confused. “She’s on life support, Agent Coulson.”

“Yes, I understand that,” he says, a little impatiently. “But I’d like to have her moved out of your trauma center and into one of the med-pods on our plane. Is that possible?”

“It’s possible,” Jazuat admits. “But I wouldn’t advise it. The trauma she’s experienced—”

“I understand,” Coulson interrupts. “But I’m going to have to insist. I’d like to take Skye for a second opinion.”

Jazuat looks a little offended, but nods. “I’ll arrange it, then. Excuse me.”

She walks out of the room, and Jemma and Fitz stand.

“A second opinion, sir?” Jemma asks. “Skye sustained a very serious injury.”

“And SHIELD’s trauma centers are the best,” Fitz agrees. “If they can’t do anything for Skye here…”

“We’re not taking her just to another trauma center,” Coulson says placidly. “We’re taking her to Bethesda.”

Jemma and Fitz exchange puzzled looks, and Grant stands.

“Before we do that, sir,” he says. “We should probably go stop Agent May.”

Coulson pauses and glances down the hall. “You think she went to express her frustration to Quinn?”

“Or on him,” Grant says. “If we need him alive…”

“Right,” Coulson says. “Let’s go. FitzSimmons, you stay here and oversee Skye’s transfer to the Bus.”

“Yes, sir,” Jemma and Fitz agree, though both of them are obviously still confused.

Somehow, Grant doubts that the secret to saving Garrett and Skye’s lives is being held in _Bethesda_ , of all places, but what does he know?

So he doesn’t ask any questions, just follows Coulson out of the room and towards the hangar.

\---

It takes a while for Skye’s transfer to be arranged. They need to remove one of the Bus’ med-pods, sterilize it, equip it with the monitors and machines necessary for Skye’s medical care, then get Skye situated and secured—because turbulence is a very, very bad thing when one is on life support.

There’s nothing for any of the team to do while this is happening, not even Jemma—as she keeps reminding them, she’s _not_ a medical doctor, and the trauma center staff is fully capable of taking care of this. Not that she doesn’t try to get involved in the process, but Grant, after ascertaining that no, there’s nothing she can really do to help, convinces her to leave it be.

He drags her and Fitz back to the Bus and makes breakfast for the three of them, because he doesn’t even remember the last time he ate and suspects that it’s been just as long for the other two, if not longer. He also tries to get Jemma to take some fentanyl—he can tell by the way she’s taking careful, shallow breaths that her ribs are in serious pain at the moment—but he’s less successful on that score.

“If we’re bringing Skye back to the Bus, my mind needs to remain clear,” she insists. “If she starts coding—”

“Okay,” he interrupts, partially because of how distressed Fitz looks at the idea. He’s definitely feeling guilty over Skye’s condition, and they’re going to have to talk about it—he’s no use to anyone if he’s distracted by his emotions. “No fentanyl. But you have to take _something_ , Jemma.”

“I don’t disagree,” Jemma sighs. “I’ll take some paracetamol after breakfast, how’s that?”

He knows it’s the best he’s going to get. Jemma, unfortunately, isn’t about to put her own wellbeing above Skye’s, no matter how much he wishes she would. As long as Skye is in her current condition, Jemma won’t be touching anything stronger than paracetamol, for fear of impairing her judgment.

Short of forcibly drugging her—which is a little extreme, although admittedly tempting—there’s not much he can do. So he just nods and returns to his breakfast. He keeps a careful eye on Jemma as they eat, taking in the careful way she’s breathing and the pain written in the lines around her eyes.

He hopes he’s right about the would-be kidnappers being HYDRA agents, and thus still alive. Because he owes one of them in particular a visit to express his displeasure at the way Jemma is suffering.

\---

After breakfast, Jemma and Fitz head down to the lab. He doesn’t know that they actually have anything to work on, at the moment—actually, he’s pretty sure they don’t. Most likely it’s just for lack of anything better to do, an attempt to distract themselves from their worry about Skye. He’ll join them in a bit, but first he has some things of his own to take care of. Not that he actually gets the chance to do anything more than shower and change before duty calls.

Coulson has returned to the trauma center to oversee Skye’s transfer, even though he’ll only be getting in the way and has, in fact, expressly forbid any of the rest of the team from doing the same. May, having filed their flight plan and seen to the Bus’ refueling, is doing Tai Chi in the lounge, presumably trying to regain her control.

It was strange to see her lose it in the first place. It makes him feel a little better about his own recent struggles—if the woman who taught him to control his rage slips occasionally, who can blame him for doing the same? It was also a little satisfying, because for all that he and Quinn are apparently working for the same man (and didn’t learning _that_ piss Grant off), the guy is still an annoying scumbag. It was nice to see him bleeding all over the floor of the Cage.

The point is, with the two senior agents otherwise occupied, it falls to Grant to answer the call from HQ. He’s in the cockpit, double checking the flight plan—seriously, Bethesda?—when the radio activates.

“SHIELD 616,” a pleasant female says. “This is tower Sierra Foxtrot. Please respond.”

Grant sits in the copilot’s chair and activates the microphone.

“This is SHIELD 616.”

“SHIELD 616, you have new orders. Authorization code Delta-Echo-Bravo-674.”

 “Acknowledged,” he says, careful to keep his surprise out of his voice. That’s a high-level code. These orders, whatever they are, aren’t just coming from the Hub or the Triskelion. They’re coming from a high-level agent—higher than Garrett. “What are our orders?”

“You will hand over your prisoner for interrogation,” the woman says. “Followed by transport to the Fridge. Transmitting transfer papers now.”

The monitor next to the pilot’s chair beeps, and Grant leans over to see the transfer request appear on screen. It’s all in order; they’re to wait for a prisoner transport team to arrive from the nearby base and hand Quinn over immediately.

Damn it. Coulson is _not_ going to like this, and, to be honest, neither does Grant. Quinn might’ve just been following Garrett’s (or, to be more precise, the Clairvoyant’s) orders, but he still shot a member of Grant’s team—someone under his protection. He wants to personally see to it that Quinn pays, not hand him over and let someone else take care of it.

Still, orders are orders, and he can’t refuse them.

“Transfer request received,” he says. “Orders acknowledged. SHIELD 616 out.”

“Tower Sierra Foxtrot out.”

He flips off the microphone and sighs, then stands. There’s a light on the control panel indicating that one of the cargo doors is open. Skye’s med-pod must be getting loaded right now, which means that Coulson will be back on the Bus soon, if he isn’t already. Grant will convey their new orders and let _him_ decide what to do about them.

Sure enough, he finds Coulson in the storage area, watching as Skye’s med-pod gets locked in place.

“HQ radioed in,” Grant informs him. “They’ve ordered us to hand over Quinn for interrogation and transport to the Fridge. You want me to arrange the transfer?”

He can hear the steady beat of the heart monitor attached to Skye, but he can’t bring himself to look at her. It’s necessary, he reminds himself. Garrett is dying, and they need a way to save him. As long as they find that way—as long as Coulson _gives_ them that way—Skye will be saved, too.

“No,” Coulson says. “Quinn stays in our custody until I say otherwise.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant says. He hesitates, considering. He can’t push too far, but judging by the air of quiet desperation that’s clinging to Coulson at the moment, he thinks he might be able to get a little more information out of him if he asks in the right way.

It’s worth a shot, at least. He doesn’t like going in blind, and as things stand, that’s exactly what’s going to happen when they get to Bethesda.

“You sure about this?” he asks, careful to keep his tone doubtful and not challenging. “Taking her all the way to Bethesda?”

Coulson doesn’t look away from Skye. “It’s where my file says I was treated after New York.”

“I understand,” Grant says. He allows a little of his frustration (with the fact that he’s been on this team for nearly six months and _still_ hasn’t accomplished his goal) to seep into his tone, knowing that Coulson will assume he’s emotional over Skye. Which he’s not. Obviously. “But what makes you think the doctors there will be able to do _anything_ different? I know they saved you, but—”

“They did a lot more than save me,” Coulson interrupts. He finally looks away from Skye to meet Grant’s eyes. “It’s time you know the truth.”

“The truth, sir?” Grant asks.

“I wasn’t dead for eight seconds,” Coulson says. “Or forty. I was dead for _days_.”

…Okay, he can’t say he was expecting _that_. He knew going in that the eight seconds thing wasn’t true, but days? Plural?

“I don’t understand,” he says. He lets his confusion show, because it’s a natural reaction to that kind of statement. “How?”

“I don’t know,” Coulson says, looking back at Skye. “It was a complicated procedure—I have the file, but I don’t understand more than ten words of the medical parts of it. What I do know is that somehow, the doctors at Bethesda brought me back to life after I was dead for several days, then gave me false memories of recovering in Tahiti in order to keep the procedure a secret.”

His first reaction is triumph. After nearly a year and a half of planning and nearly six months of undercover work, he’s finally got _something_ on Coulson’s resurrection. Because if he’s got the file, then it’s here on the Bus—likely a paper copy, to keep their team hacker out of it—and if it’s here on the Bus, Grant can take it and copy it. It won’t be easy, but the theft of secure information is something he’s done often, and well. This is _exactly_ the break he’s been waiting for—exactly what he needs to save Garrett’s life.

His second reaction, though, is pure anger. Because really? It took Skye getting _shot_ to get this much out of Coulson? Grant’s spent six months protecting this team, putting up with Coulson’s weird way of doing things, his half-assed plans, his repeated exposure of the team in general (and Jemma in particular) to danger, and it takes _this_ to get the truth?

If Coulson had false memories implanted (and he makes a mental note to look into that more, later; a machine that can implant false memories—and, presumably, erase real ones—could be incredibly useful to Garrett’s plans), that suggests that he hasn’t known the truth the whole time. He must’ve discovered it fairly recently. It would explain his strange behavior: the unexplained side-trips, the hours spent locked in his office, his erratic approach to their cases…

And _that_ pisses him off. Because Grant _knows_ that he’s earned Coulson’s trust by now, a thousand times over. Coulson should have said something about this. If he had just _trusted_ the rest of the team with this information, which has so clearly been bothering him—if he hadn’t been such a paranoid, secretive bastard—Skye wouldn’t have needed to get shot. The trap on the train would’ve been entirely unnecessary.

This whole thing could have been avoided, if only Coulson was a little more trusting.

And, of course, there’s the other thing: the fact that Coulson is so upset over Skye that he’s sharing this information with Grant, after holding it back for weeks. The fact that Coulson is exposing their entire team to highly classified SHIELD secrets in order to save the life of a _consultant_.

And he had the nerve to accuse _Grant_ of being emotionally compromised?

But he can’t let his anger—or his triumph—show, so he keeps his expression confused and shakes his head.

“After several days?” he asks. “How is that even possible?”

Coulson shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Grant thinks quickly. He’s sure he can get to the file—likely in Coulson’s office, since that’s also his bedroom—long enough to copy it, but it won’t be easy. It’s also very high risk, because if he gets caught, there’s no ready excuse for those actions. Not to mention the fact that if Coulson didn’t understand the file, chances are Grant won’t, either, and while Centipede has plenty of doctors on staff…well, he doesn’t entirely trust them.

But there is _someone_ he trusts. Someone who could probably understand the file easily. Someone who would have no trouble sharing its contents with him, who would assume his interest to be simple curiosity.

“You said you didn’t understand the medical parts of the file, sir?” he asks.

“No,” Coulson says. He looks away from Skye, his expression thoughtful. He obviously realizes where Grant is going with this, and he’s already considering it.

Grant says it anyway, just to make things clear. “We both know someone who would.”

“Yeah,” Coulson says. “Yeah, we do, don’t we?”

\---

After they take off, Coulson goes to fill Jemma and Fitz in—and to give them the file to read, so they can get to work on deciphering it. Grant, on the other hand, goes to speak to May. He does want to be in the lab while Jemma and Fitz study the medical reports, but he’s sure they’ll be at it for a while, and he needs to know just how much May knew about this.

So he goes to the cockpit. He sits down in the copilot’s seat just as May is making an adjustment to the flight controls, and he takes note of the bruising on her knuckles.

“Hurt much?” he asks, making himself comfortable.

“I’m fine,” May says, flexing her hand.

Grant takes a deep breath. “Coulson told me how long he was dead.” He watches her face and takes in her complete lack of reaction. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

May’s face remains blank, which is unhelpful, although hardly a surprise. He needs to know what she thinks of this venture, but she’s hardly about to come right out and tell him. He needs to prompt her, subtly.

Earlier, he used unrelated emotions and let Coulson assume they were about Skye. That won’t work as well with May; she’d see right through it. If he’s going to use his emotions to lead her into sharing hers (or what passes for sharing, when it comes to her), they need to be genuine.

What does he feel about Skye? About her condition?

Worry, mostly—that this won’t work, that the miracle procedure Coulson received will be unavailable or unsuccessful, leaving Skye dead and Garrett no better off than before. That’s the main thing he’s feeling: worry over Skye’s chances.

But it’s not the only thing.

Honestly, he feels…guilty, almost. He didn’t know what Garrett was planning, luring them onto that train. But if he had, he wouldn’t have stopped it. He would have fought harder to keep Jemma on the Bus, definitely, but the rest of them? He’d have let them walk right into the trap, _knowing_ that one of them would be near-fatally injured.

He’s been over this before, when Centipede kidnapped Coulson. Prioritizing Garrett’s life over the lives of his team, of people who are counting on Grant to protect them, people who have saved his life in the past and will doubtless do so again in the future…

He shakes off his contemplations, annoyed. This isn’t the time for reflection. He’s here for a reason; to determine May’s attitude regarding this course of action.

“I saw Skye,” he says, letting some of his honest worry into his voice. “In the pod. Machines filtering her blood, breathing for her.” He looks down for a moment, putting away his worry; the quintessential specialist, unwilling to admit to feeling real emotions. “I’m not sure I’d make this play.”

May looks at him.

“Fly halfway around the world, hoping for a second miracle,” he clarifies.

“If Coulson thinks there’s a chance in a million to save Skye,” May says. “To save any of us? He’d take it.”

That’s approval in her voice. Question answered; she’s backing Coulson’s play because she thinks it’s the right move, not just out of her endless loyalty to him.

Of course, her endless loyalty to him is still in effect, as evidenced by her next words about people like them needing people like Coulson. She says going after this miracle chance to save Skye’s life makes more sense than killing the person responsible for her condition.

Maybe they do need people like Coulson, because personally, Grant doesn’t see anything wrong with the second option. There’s no reason they can’t do both, right?

Their conversation is interrupted by the radio activating, SHIELD (tower Michael Tango, this time; they’re out of Sierra Foxtrot’s airspace) contacting them to inform them that they’re in violation of directive 1297.

“Disobeying a direct order,” Grant says. “We didn’t hand Quinn over for interrogation.”

May sighs. “Great.”

There’s the unmistakable sound of planes flying overhead, and he and May both lean forward to look out the windshield. There are two F-35s, one coming up on either side—apparently, SHIELD is taking this violation very, very seriously. Which fits the situation, considering the high-level authorization code he was given earlier. The higher-ups aren’t big on disobedience.

Well, no one in SHIELD is, really—but the higher-ups are less than most.

“This is SHIELD 616,” May says into the radio. “How do we proceed?”

“Prepare to be boarded and relinquish command,” the woman on the radio responds.

Grant and May exchange surprised looks. Okay, that’s a little drastic, even for such blatant disobedience. Who the hell gave this order, Pierce?

…Actually, that’s a distinct possibility.

“I’ll alert Coulson,” he says quietly to May. She nods in acknowledgement, already setting the necessary controls to allow for docking.

He leaves the cockpit and heads for the lab. F-35s are too small for prisoner transport—there’s not enough room to secure someone, and would leave the prisoner far too close to the flight controls. Which means there must be a third plane overhead, out of view of the windows. Likely a small transport, if it intends to dock on the Bus.

That would also explain the presence of the F-35s: they’re here to serve as muscle, in case Coulson refuses to cooperate with whoever’s in the transport.

Coulson’s just reaching the top of the stairs as Grant steps on to the catwalk. He steps back to let him pass, then fills him in as they walk down the hallway and across the lounge.

The Bus shakes a little as the small transport docks.

“If they scratch my paint, I’m gonna be pissed,” Coulson mutters. He sounds entirely serious.

“I’ll await your orders, sir,” Grant says.

Once Coulson’s gone upstairs, Grant returns to the lounge to wait. If it comes to a fight, he’ll be better off here, out in the open, than right next to the stairs, where whoever SHIELD sent will have the advantage of higher ground.

It probably _won’t_ come to a fight—Coulson’s more the diplomacy type, especially when they’re facing down two F-35s—but a little bit of caution never hurt anyone.

He doesn’t have to wait long; it’s not even five minutes later that he hears footsteps on the stairs, and Antoine Triplett walks into his view.

For a moment, Grant’s frozen in pure surprise. He knows that after he took this assignment, Trip took over as Garrett’s main specialist. That was based on Grant’s recommendation; he’s worked with Trip several times, and while he’s not a viable candidate for recruitment to Garrett’s cause, he’s a good specialist that Grant knew he could trust to have Garrett’s back.

If he’s here, that means…

“Agent Grant Ward,” Trip says, extending a hand.

Grant shakes it, putting aside his surprise. “Trip. Is Garrett upstairs?”

“Yeah,” Trip says. “You know, he still talks about that thousand-yard shot you took in Bandung.”

It’s a running joke between the two of them to downplay each other’s accomplishments, and Grant keeps his amusement off his face with effort. Trip is one of the few people he’s worked with that he actually _likes_ , and, despite the circumstances, it’s nice to see him again.

“It was two thousand,” he corrects. But this isn’t really the time for joking, is it? “So, what are you doing here?”

Instead of answering, Trip takes a look around. He looks a little impressed.

“Man, this is like the Playboy jet,” he says, clapping Grant on the arm. “I mean, a guy could get soft, bunking in a space like this. How did Coulson swing such a sweet ride?”

The words are probably intended to distract him from Trip’s movement, which has put him between Grant and the Cage. Smart. But then, Trip is one of the best.

Of course, so is Grant.

“He died,” he says simply.

Trip mulls that over. “That’s tight.” He takes a deep breath. “You wanna point me to the box you’re keeping Quinn?”

Grant would be willing to bet that Trip has the Bus’ blueprints memorized. It’s just like him to try asking nicely first.

“HQ ordered Garrett to haul his ass to the Fridge for questioning,” Trip continues. He takes a breath to continue, but then he’s distracted. “Is that a full bar?”

“Welcome to it,” Grant says, casually circling past him, closer to the Cage. “But, uh, Quinn stays put ‘til Coulson says otherwise.”

“Come on, man,” Trip says. He steps a little closer. “Garrett was your SO, too, so you know how this works.”

“Why don’t you remind me?” Grant invites.

“Garrett wants Quinn,” Trip says. “It’s my job to make sure Garrett gets what he wants. Now, where is he?”

“Can’t help you with that,” Grant says.

Trip nods. “No worries. I’ll find Quinn myself. I’m sure he’s tucked between the Jacuzzi and the squash court.”

He starts to step past Grant, who reaches out and grabs his arm to stop him.

“Hey,” he starts to say, but Trip lashes out with a punch, and the fight is on.

Over the years, they’ve done a lot of fighting—both beside one another in the field and against one another in practice. So they’re pretty evenly matched. Trip gets in a few good hits, Grant gets in a few better ones, and he has Trip backed against the seats when he hears Coulson calling him.

“Stand down,” Coulson orders.

Grant steps away. Coulson is approaching, Garrett at his side, and Grant can’t stop himself from looking his SO over. He doesn’t _look_ like he’s any closer to death than he was the last time Grant saw him, but he must be. Otherwise, why come all this way? He has no doubt that Garrett purposefully maneuvered himself to be sent after Quinn, so that he had an excuse to be on the Bus. Presumably because he wants to be present when the secret to Coulson’s survival is revealed, rather than being left to hear about it later from Grant.

That rankles a little—if Garrett was going to manipulate the situation, first to put Coulson in a position to reveal the secret, then to be present when it’s revealed, why exactly did Grant have to join this team?—but he puts it aside. If nothing else, joining the team got him Jemma. And meeting her makes the trouble of the past six months absolutely worth it.

Coulson says that he and Garrett have come to an agreement; Garrett will be interrogating Quinn right here on the Bus as they continue to Bethesda.

“Well, I’m a bit of a sweet-talker when I need to be,” Garrett says, falsely modest. “You wouldn’t _believe_ what I could talk _this_ son of a gun into.” HYDRA jokes, nice. “Good seeing you, son.”

“You too, sir,” Grant says honestly, shaking his hand. Garrett’s the closest thing he’s got to a real father, and, annoyance aside, he’s missed him these last six months. “And thank you.”

Garrett gives some sincere-sounding line about saving Skye being the priority. Then he gives Grant a piercing look.

“And I hear congratulations are in order,” he says. “Word on the street is, you met your soulmate on this plane.”

“I did, sir,” Grant confirms. “Jemma Simmons. She’s the team’s biochemist.”

“Well, congratulations,” Garrett says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Although I have to say, I’m a little disappointed I had to hear it through the grapevine. I don’t rate a phone call?”

“Sorry, sir,” he says. “I didn’t know what you were up to. Didn’t want to risk compromising your position with unscheduled contact.”

“Fair enough,” Garrett says. “You’re forgiven, just this once. But once I’m done with Quinn, I want to meet this soulmate of yours.”

“Absolutely, sir,” Grant nods. “I look forward to introducing you.”

Garrett claps him on the shoulder again, then looks at Coulson.

“So, where are you keeping Quinn?”

“This way,” Coulson says, and leads him towards the Cage.

Grant watches them go, then turns to look at Trip.

“Sorry about the,” he breaks off, gesturing vaguely, unsure of how to put ‘the thing where I was kicking your ass’ into nicer words.

“No hard feelings,” Trip shrugs. “You were backing Coulson’s play. I can respect that.”

Grant nods. It’s pretty much what he expected; overall, Trip’s a pretty chill guy.

“So, you met your soulmate,” Trip says. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Grant says. “You want to come meet her?”

He needs to catch Jemma and Fitz up, anyway.

“Sure,” Trip says. “Lead the way.”

They start down the hallway that leads to the stairs, and Trip gives him a sideways look.

“You’re on a team together,” he comments. “She go into the field?”

Grant sighs. “Unfortunately.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Jemma’s an asset to the team,” he admits. “We’d be screwed without her. But…”

“But that doesn’t mean you have to like it?” Trip guesses.

“Yeah,” he says. “Pretty much.”

Trip shakes his head. “Better you than me, man.”

As they reach the bottom of the stairs, Trip whistles. He’s looking at Lola, and Grant shakes his head.

“Coulson’s a collector,” he says.

“Of cars?” Trip asks. “Because that is one sweet ride.”

“Of old things,” Grant corrects. “He’d lose his mind over your mom’s Howling Commando stuff.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Trip says thoughtfully, then glances over at the lab. “They look busy.”

Jemma and Fitz are standing on either side of the table in the center of the lab, heads bent over what must be Coulson’s file. There are papers and pictures spread out all over the table, and Fitz is holding what looks like an x-ray up to the lights, squinting. They _do_ look busy, and what they’re working on is undoubtedly important, but they need to be caught up on the situation.

“They’re always busy,” he says mildly, and leads the way into the lab.

The doors are actually closed, for once, and Jemma and Fitz look over as they hiss open.

“Grant!” Jemma greets him cheerfully. Her smile fades a little as she looks at Trip; she’s obviously confused by his presence. “Hello.”

“Jemma Simmons, Leo Fitz,” he says. “This is Antoine Triplett. He’s a specialist.”

“What’s he doing here?” Fitz demands. He walks forward and around to the end of the table, obviously aiming to block Trip’s view of the file spread over it. “And, for that matter, how did he get on board?”

“SHIELD sent him,” Grant says. “We were supposed to hand Quinn over in Zurich, and when we didn’t…”

“We were in violation of directive 1297,” Fitz completes, shaking his head.

“Well, that explains the plane we heard earlier,” Jemma says. “I suppose we should have anticipated it. But Quinn is…not here, so—?”

“My SO and Agent Coulson came to an agreement,” Trip explains. “He’s interrogating Quinn here instead of removing him. I’m just down here to meet you.”

Jemma blinks a little. “I’m sorry?”

“Ward and I go way back,” Trip says. “Couldn’t pass up the chance to meet his soulmate.”

He extends a hand, and Jemma shakes it, looking suddenly thoughtful.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Trip, would you?” she asks. “From Vienna?”

Grant, caught off guard, huffs a laugh. He forgot that he told her that story. To be fair, that was months and months ago. He’s surprised she remembers.

“Ward told you about that?” Trip asks, grinning.

“He did,” Jemma confirms. “It was…quite a story.”

“In my defense,” Trip says. “That mime came out of nowhere.”

She nods seriously. “Of course it did.”

Trip shakes his head and extends his hand to Fitz. “And Agent Fitz. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Have you?” Fitz asks, shaking his hand.

“About both of you, really,” Trip corrects. “It’s an honor to meet you both. That quick concrete of yours saved my life in…well, it saved my life. But you probably get that a lot.”

“Not nearly enough, actually,” Fitz mutters. Jemma elbows him.

“It’s always nice to hear,” she says. “And it’s nice to meet you, as well.”

Grant casts an eye over the various papers spread over the table. It looks like they’re only about halfway through the file, and, since they’re kind of on a time limit, here, he should probably wrap this up.

Trip seems to be on the same wavelength; he smiles at Jemma and Fitz, then takes a step back.

“Well,” he says. “Now that we’ve met, I’ll let you get back to work. It looks important.”

“It is,” Jemma confirms. “Thank you.”

“We can access the security feeds in the briefing room,” Grant tells Trip. “Including the one from the Cage, if you’d like to check in on the interrogation.”

“Sounds good,” Trip says easily.

“Just one thing,” he says. He crosses the room, grabs one of the stools from the counter, and wheels it back over to Jemma’s side of the table.

She looks at it, then back at him. “Is this a hint?”

“A request,” he corrects. “Please sit down. Staying on your feet all day doesn’t help anyone.”

“It’s very sweet of you to be concerned,” Jemma says, smiling. She goes on to her toes to kiss his cheek, then sits down, wheeling the stool closer to the table. “Thank you.”

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into—”

“No,” she interrupts, amused. “I will _not_ be taking any fentanyl, thank you.”

He shrugs. “Worth a shot. We’ll be upstairs.”

“We’ll let you know if we find anything,” Jemma says.

“Let us know how the interrogation goes,” Fitz adds.

“Sure,” he agrees.

He and Trip leave the lab and head up the stairs.

“Fentanyl?” Trip asks as they go. “That’s a pretty strong opioid. What happened?”

“There was a kidnapping attempt three weeks ago,” Grant says. “Skye fought the attackers off, but one of them got in some lucky hits. Bruised Jemma’s ribs.”

“Ouch,” Trip says, fully sympathetic. “She won’t take anything for it?”

“Not while Skye’s on life support, at least,” he sighs. He understands Jemma’s reluctance, and would expect nothing less from her, but that doesn’t make seeing her in pain any easier.

The discussion reminds him that he still wants words with Garret, but unfortunately, that will have to wait. After all, every inch of the Bus is under constant video surveillance—and that conversation is one that he can _not_ afford to have overheard.

\---

Things happen quickly, after that. He and Trip manage to catch the last few minutes of Quinn’s interrogation, where he confirms Grant’s suspicions that he was ordered to shoot Skye in order to force Coulson’s hand.

The interrogation has barely finished when Jemma comes upstairs with a problem. Streiten has gone off the grid, and the rest of the doctors listed in the file don’t exist. Neither does the operating room the procedure supposedly took place in. Basically, they’re at a dead end.

And Skye is running out of time.

Luckily, Jemma and Fitz come through once again. In Coulson’s file, Jemma discovers the name of a drug—or designation, rather, as the file only calls it GH-325—that apparently causes cellular regeneration. Fitz somehow gets access to the archives at the Triskelion, and that leads them to a file on a collapsed World War II bunker called the Guest House. The file has only ever been accessed by Director Fury, and that, combined with the GH part of the drug in question, points to the Guest House being the most likely location for Coulson’s life-saving procedure.

It’s their best bet. Mostly because it’s their _only_ bet.

The Guest House is only two hours out from their current location. Since they’ve got absolutely no idea what’s waiting for them there, they can only outline the barest minimum of a plan. It takes all of five minutes, and when it’s done, Garrett turns to Grant expectantly.

“So,” he says. “About this soulmate of yours.”

“She’s in the lab,” Grant says. “Still going over Coulson’s file.”

“Lead the way.”

“Ward,” Coulson says. “Send Fitz up, would you?”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agrees. Then he leads the way out of the briefing room.

“That you have a soulmate isn’t the only word on the street,” Garrett says as they cross the lounge.

“No?” Grant asks.

“No,” Garrett confirms. “Word is, she almost got kidnapped a few weeks ago.”

“That she did, sir,” Grant says, a little relieved. Obviously, they can’t speak freely, but they can talk around it. He might actually be about to get some answers.

“What happened?” Garrett asks.

Grant fills him in, and Garrett nods along.

“Sounds like they weren’t trying too hard,” he says, when Grant’s finished.

“No, they weren’t,” he agrees, careful to keep his voice casual. “Guess they’ll have to try harder next time.”

“If they try again at all,” Garrett says. “They have to know you’ll be watching for them now. Might decide they’d be better off going after some other biochemist.”

That’s the confirmation he was hoping for. Garrett _was_ behind the attempt, he meant for it to fail, and he won’t be trying again. Which means that, as Grant suspected, he was never actually _after_ Jemma. He just wanted people to think he was.

“I almost hope not,” Grant says as they reach the bottom of the stairs. “I have a few things to say about the injuries Jemma received in the attempt.”

Garrett claps him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll get your chance, son.”

Which is the other confirmation he wanted: the men who tried to kidnap Jemma are still alive. Garrett, being as careful and paranoid as he is, almost definitely has details on their new identities. Meaning that, as soon as the opportunity presents itself, Grant will be able to go after them and express his displeasure in person.

Excellent.

Fitz is alone in the lab; a glance at the monitor shows that Jemma is in the med-pod with Skye, checking on the machines surrounding her.

“Fitz,” Grant says, pulling the engineer’s attention from the file he’s pouring over. “Coulson wants to see you.”

“Right,” Fitz says. He closes the file and sets it on the table, then turns to go, stopping when he catches sight of Garrett.

“Agent John Garrett,” Garrett says, offering his hand. “You must be Agent Fitz.”

“Yes, I am,” Fitz says, shaking Garrett’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Garrett says. “You do good work. I’ve seen the specs for that gun of yours. It’s genius.”

Fitz looks pleased, and no wonder—two acknowledgements of his brilliance in one day.

“Thank you,” he says. He looks at Grant. “Simmons will be back in a moment. She’s just checking on Skye.”

“Thanks,” Grant says.

Fitz nods and leaves the lab.

“Kind of a ridiculous name, though,” Garrett says, once he’s gone. “He _really_ calls it the ‘night-night’ gun?”

“Yeah,” Grant sighs. “He really does. Jemma’s tried to talk him out of it, but…”

Garrett shakes his head, bemused. “Scientists.”

“Tell me about it,” Grant agrees quietly, as he hears footsteps approaching from the storage area.

“Fitz, have you found anything on—oh!” Jemma stops in the doorway, surprised.

“Coulson wanted to see Fitz upstairs,” Grant tells her.

“Oh, dear,” Jemma sighs. She crosses the room and lays her tablet on the counter. “What are the chances that that _isn’t_ because he intends to take Fitz into the Guest House?”

“Let’s just say they’re not great,” Grant says.

It was one of the few things they were able to agree on during the planning; they need someone who has at least some idea of what they need to help Skye, in case the doctors refuse to cooperate, and they can’t bring Jemma in. Partially because she’s injured, and because Grant would never allow it, but mostly because they need her to stay on the Bus and monitor Skye.

Jemma sighs again, then turns her attention to Garrett.

“Hello,” she says. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Jemma Simmons.”

“John Garrett,” he says, offering his hand.

She shakes it with a bright smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Grant’s told me so much about you.”

“Has he?” Garrett asks. “I wish I could say the same. You know, I had to fly all this way just to get confirmation you existed?”

“Oh, really,” Jemma says, with a little look at Grant. He shrugs. “Well, Grant’s a very private person, but I’ll admit that does surprise me. He has so many good things to say about you.”

He feels the need to defend himself, even though she’s only teasing.

“I had no idea where you were or what you were doing,” he says. “I wasn’t about to share Jemma’s name over an unsecured line.”

Jemma blinks at him. “Well, that’s…certainly cautious of you.”

“No, he’s got a point,” Garrett admits. “It’s true, the people I’ve been after lately aren’t the kind you’d want to know about your soulmate.”

“The things a specialist has to consider,” she muses, shaking her head. “It’s all beyond me, I’m afraid.”

“Likewise,” Grant says, briefly distracted by an equation scrawled on a post-it note attached to one of the cabinets. Or at least he thinks it’s an equation. For all he knows, it might be a recipe written in Greek. An equation seems more likely, though. “Your work is—”

“Not nearly so dangerous as yours,” Jemma interrupts.

He smiles to himself, amused. She always does that—interrupts whenever she thinks he’s about to insult his own intelligence. Not that he considers it an insult to say that someone with two PhDs is smarter than him, but he appreciates her efforts to bolster his ego.

“In any case,” Jemma says, turning to Garrett. “Would you like to sit down, Agent Garrett? We’ve a while to the Guest House, I believe, and I’d like a chance to get to know the man of whom Grant speaks so fondly.”

“I’d love to,” Garrett says, taking the offered stool. “And call me John, please.”

“Jemma, then,” she says, taking a stool of her own.

The next hour and a half is…pretty much everything Grant would have wished for, if he’d ever given any thought to Jemma and Garrett meeting. Garrett seems thoroughly charmed by Jemma, and of course, he’s never met anyone he couldn’t convince to like him. It doesn’t look like an act, though; he appears to genuinely like Jemma, and be genuinely liked in return.

Garrett asks several astute questions about Jemma’s second doctoral dissertation, when they get on the topic of her education, and Jemma is obviously pleased by them. The fact that he knows enough about the subject to ask questions tells Grant that he’s done his homework on Jemma, but that’s only to be expected, really.

Eventually, the conversation turns to Grant, which is…slightly awkward. He’s tempted to leave, but feels compelled to remain so that he can defend himself. It’s entirely necessary (there are several baseless accusations of recklessness), and he does his best to steer them back to talk of Jemma and her many good points, with only partial success.

All in all, it’s all he could have wanted from a first meeting between his soulmate and his mentor. Actually, he’s strongly reminded of his own first meeting with Jemma’s parents. All that’s missing are the baby pictures, which—fortunately—Garrett is _not_ in possession of.

Garrett’s in the middle of telling Jemma about the op in Manila that ended with Grant needing to get fished out of the Pasig River. Grant’s trying to convince them that it was an entirely deliberate, strategic move—with no success, partially because of how polluted that river is; no one would swim in it willingly—when the alarm on his watch goes off.

“We’re ten minutes out,” he says. “I need to suit up.”

“I should get Skye ready for transport,” Jemma says, glancing at the monitor, which is still displaying the security feed from the med-pod. Then she turns a stern look on Grant. “Do be careful, won’t you? One injured member of this team is enough.”

“Hey, I’m always careful,” he says, raising his hands in innocence. “There’s no need for that look.”

“Don’t worry, Jemma,” Garrett says. “I’ll watch his back.”

“And your own,” Jemma says. It sounds more like an order than a suggestion. “You _both_ need to be careful.”

“What makes you think I won’t be?” Garrett asks, obviously entertained.

Jemma favors him with an unimpressed look. “You trained Grant, didn’t you? He had to get those bad habits from somewhere.”

“Gee, thanks,” Grant says, amused.

“Anytime,” she assures him, then tugs him down so she can kiss his cheek. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see to Skye. Good luck.”

“We won’t need it,” Garrett says cockily. “But thanks.”

She nods and heads back into the storage area.

“I like her,” Garrett says, watching her go. For a moment, Grant can’t read his expression, but it quickly clears, replaced by a familiar smirk. “She’s got spine.”

“Yeah,” Grant says. “There’s no arguing that.” He checks his watch again. “I need to go upstairs. We have a secondary armory here in the cargo bay, sir. You can help yourself if you don’t want to go back to your transport.”

Garrett stands. “I just might take you up on that. _If_ your weapons are in decent condition.”

“They are,” Grant assures him, leading the way out of the lab. “I’m responsible for their upkeep.”

He shows Garrett to the weapons crates in the cargo bay, and Garrett waves him off.

“I’ll look through these,” he says. “You should go change, son. We’ve got a miracle drug to find.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agrees. “We do.”

They exchange a loaded look, the closest either of them will get to acknowledging just how much is riding on the GH-325, and then Grant heads upstairs.

\---

Ten minutes later, they’ve landed outside the bunker and Coulson is giving the final briefing. There’s been no response to May’s attempts to raise contact, so they have no idea what they’re walking into. They do know that it’s not a SHIELD facility, at least not technically, so they’re all bearing heavy arms, just in case.

‘All’ here means Grant, Garrett, Coulson, and Fitz. Fitz is accompanying them in case things go sideways and they need to grab the drug and run. Trip is staying put—ostensibly because his medical training might prove useful to Jemma, if Skye should take a turn for the worse, but more likely because he would stick close to Garrett. Garrett, Grant suspects, is going to manufacture an opportunity to separate from the rest of the group so he can grab a sample of the GH-325 himself.

Of course, Grant will take the opportunity as well, should it arise, but. He’d just have to figure out a way to get it to Garrett discreetly anyway, so it’ll be more convenient if Garrett can just get the sample himself.

The best case scenario, of course, is that the doctors will welcome them with open arms and immediately invite them to bring Skye inside so they can save her. However, Grant’s not holding his breath on that one. It’s just really not how his luck goes.

Plus, this is a highly classified facility to which they definitely do _not_ have an invitation. Chances are, they’re going to have to fight their way in. Hence the heavy arms.

Grant examines the facility as they approach it. It doesn’t look like much, just a bunker set into the mountainside. Nothing that would draw any attention from the air. Which is the whole point, of course. He just really hopes it has what they need—and that it’s not abandoned.

He keeps his gun (a UMP45, for this op) at the ready as they reach the front door. His hands are as steady as always, but his heart is racing. Skye’s life is on the line here, there’s no doubt about that—if this doesn’t work, if there’s no GH-325 here, then she’s dead. But Garrett’s life is on the line, too. This is everything they’ve been working for, everything they’ve been _hoping_ for. This miracle drug of Coulson’s may be the only thing capable of saving Garrett’s life.

Basically, there’s a lot riding on this op.

They hit an immediate snag, in that none of them are familiar with the code phrase they’re given when they ring the doorbell. Which means that none of them know the countersign, and Fitz can’t find it in the database, either. The guard, understandably, is unimpressed by Coulson’s attempted diplomacy, and refuses to let them in without the countersign.

“Pretty please it is,” Garrett comments, and gives Grant a nod.

He pulls out his sidearm and uses it to shoot the security camera above the door. Then Fitz gets to work hacking the door. He makes quick work of it, of course, and it’s not long at all before they’re heading into the bunker.

There’s a long hallway leading down to an elevator, and they waste no time running for it. Whatever security is present will obviously know they’re coming—for one thing, there aren’t a lot of reasons to shoot out a surveillance camera—and the longer it takes them to reach the elevator, the more time the Guest House security has to prepare for them.

Of course, they don’t actually go down _in_ the elevator. That would just be stupid. Instead, they get inside it, wait for Fitz to place a camera on the wall, and then climb to the roof of the elevator car as it descends.

When it reaches the bottom level, Fitz uses his tablet to access the feed from the camera.

“There’s an antechamber and a set of glass doors,” he reports. “Can’t see much beyond that. Lights are all out.”

Inconvenient, but not unexpected.

“Well, they know we’re coming,” Coulson says. “Let’s go say hello.”

Grant drops down into the car, submachine gun at the ready. There’s no one in sight, though, and he calls the clear over his shoulder. Garrett comes down next, followed by Coulson. It’s a few seconds before Fitz joins them, and he offers an explanation before anyone can ask.

“Comms are down,” he says. “There’s too much mountain on top of us.”

Garrett makes a joke about Jemma not hearing them die, which, predictably, doesn’t go over too well with Fitz.

“Humor, son,” Garrett tells him. “You Brits are too serious! Besides, if the job was easy…”

“Wouldn’t be any fun,” Grant completes.

He and Garrett exchange looks, and, despite himself, Grant smirks a little. Everything else aside, he’s missed Garrett. It’s nice to be fighting beside him again. And infiltrating an enemy base? To the two of them, this is old hat.

“I’m not afraid,” Fitz says defensively, walking past Grant and Garrett. They hurry to follow, needing to remain in position to protect him. “Not yet. I suspect the real danger won’t happen until we breach that bulletproof glass.”

He points out a door that probably leads to a stairwell back to the surface, then examines the glass doors. Coulson asks if he thinks he can get them inside.

“To certain horrible death?” Fitz asks. “Absolutely.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Grant sees Garrett grin. He can’t help but be a little proud that his mentor seems to be liking Grant's new team—specifically, Jemma and Fitz—even though Garrett is the whole reason he’s on the team in the first place. It’s not like having his approval _changes_ anything, but…it’s still nice to have.

Grant keeps his gun up as Fitz hacks the doors. Coulson orders them to find cover as soon as they get inside, then gives Fitz the nod. The doors slide open silently, and Grant and Garrett lead the way into the main room. All four of them are able to find cover behind the desks before the doors slide shut behind them, at which point security begins to open fire. Luckily, they’re all safely out of range behind the desks.

Coulson waits until the gunfire stops to warn the shooters that if they continue to fire, the four of them will retaliate. Of course, he doesn’t even have the chance to finish his sentence before the gunfire starts up again, and Grant moves back, away from the desk.

“I count two hostiles,” he says.

“Copy that,” Garrett grins. “Ready?”

Grant gives him a nod, and after a beat, they both stand and begin to open fire. Grant takes the one on the left, Garrett takes the one on the right, and absolutely nothing gets accomplished, because _everyone_ has proper cover.

Oh, well. It was worth a shot.

Coulson asks Fitz if he has any “little flash things” and, after a look at Grant, takes it and tosses it forward. Grant, with his advanced warning, keeps his eyes closed until the hum of the flash thing—does it have a name? He doesn’t remember, at the moment—fades, at which point he opens them and opens fire simultaneously.

The flash obviously took the security guard by surprise, and he doesn’t make it back to his cover in time. Grant hears him grunt as he manages to hit him, but continues firing; he knows, from long experience, that Garrett will take advantage of the other guard’s probable distraction at his partner’s injury. Sure enough, it’s only a few seconds later that Garrett calls the all-clear.

Grant moves forward to check the status of the guard he hit, and finds him missing. There’s a clear blood trail, however, and he and Coulson follow it. Garrett stays behind to guard Fitz, who’s working on getting the lights back up.

The blood trail doesn’t lead very far; it’s only a few minutes before they find the other guard, slumped against a wall. He’s not looking too good, but Grant kicks his gun away from him, anyway. To do otherwise would just be stupid.

Coulson crouches next to the guard and takes the key ring off of his belt while promising to get him medical help. Unfortunately, it turns out that won’t be easy; according to the guard, med staff doesn’t stay on site.

“We’re looking for a drug,” Coulson says urgently. “GH-325. It might help you, too.”

“Do I k-know you?” the guard asks. He’s fading fast.

“I don’t know,” Coulson whispers. “I-I might have spent some time here a while back.”

“Then you know about…the timer,” the guard says.

Somehow, Grant has a feeling he’s not talking about the soulmate type. Which leaves…

“We got a problem!” Garrett hollers.

Coulson glances over his shoulder, then back at the guard. His eyes are closed; Coulson checks his pulse, then shakes his head.

“He’s dead,” he says. “Let’s go.”

It’s not really the time to reflect on it, but as they run back to the entrance, Grant suddenly feels much better about this whole thing. He hadn’t realized just how guilty he’d been feeling—about Skye, and about Coulson’s kidnapping a few months ago—until right now, as the guilt disappears. He’s been torn over his decision to place Garrett’s life above the well-being of his teammates, unsure whether it was the right thing to do.

He knows now that it was. After all, Coulson didn’t say a single thing against killing these two security agents. He obviously sees no problem at all in placing Skye’s life above the lives of these two men. Knowing, having proof, that Coulson would make the same choices as Grant has, does a lot to make him feel better about his actions these past few months.

Of course it’s okay to prioritize the life of someone he cares about over the lives of others who mean less to him. It’s only natural, and it’s perfectly acceptable. Otherwise Coulson—widely accepted as one of SHIELD’s most moral agents—wouldn’t do it.

“Semtex,” Garrett announces as they enter the main room. He’s looking up at the ceiling, searching. “The whole place is rigged to blow.”

“There’s enough explosive to bring down the whole mountain on top of us,” Fitz says. He sounds strangely calm about it—more resigned than worried.

Grant’s eye catches on something red, and he picks it up. It’s a timer, neon red numbers counting backwards, presumably attached to the Semtex.

“Sir,” he says, gaining Coulson’s attention. He holds up the timer. “Less than ten minutes.”

Coulson, looking horrified, moves forward to examine it.

“It’s probably a failsafe,” Grant says. “If the guards had eliminated us, they’d stop the timer.”

Coulson picks up his train of thought. “Since they didn’t…”

“It’s some kind of emergency override,” Fitz says. “Skye could probably get past it, but I can’t hack the panel, which means we’re trapped in here.”

Coulson looks to Garrett.

“You’re the guy who taught Ward how to disarm nuclear bombs,” he barks. “Figure out a way to get us out of here.” Then he turns to Fitz. “Let’s go find the drug.”

Garrett looks at Grant as Coulson and Fitz leave the room, a silent question about Coulson’s statement.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “We haven’t dealt with any nukes.”

They really haven’t, which means Coulson has no reason to know about Grant’s experience with them. Garrett shakes his head, apparently accepting this.

“I want a closer look at these explosives,” he says. “You work on the timer.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agrees, and gets to work dismantling it.

They work in silence for a few moments, until the echoes of Fitz and Coulson’s footsteps fade, and then Grant speaks up. This may be the best chance he gets to speak freely with Garrett, and he’s going to take advantage of it. He’ll have to be quick, to make sure they finish before Fitz and Coulson return, but that’s okay. He only has two things to say.

“The kidnapping attempt,” he says quietly, keeping his eyes on the timer. “A warning?”

“And insurance,” Garrett agrees.

“For what?” he asks.

“You know.”

He does know. Garrett has plans within plans within plans, with fail-safes and back-ups for each one. This includes plans for what to do if his position as the Clairvoyant is ever revealed to SHIELD. Some of the plans rely on HYDRA to get him out of custody. Most of them rely on Grant. The problem with those, of course, is that as Garrett’s protégé, suspicion would naturally fall on Grant as soon as Garrett was exposed.

By attempting—or appearing to attempt—to kidnap Jemma, Garrett sets up ‘proof’ of Grant’s innocence. Should he ever be found out, all he has to do is make a comment about the kidnapping—enough to be questioned on it, at which point he can say that if he had a gun to Jemma’s head, Grant would do anything he ordered. Which, naturally, will suggest to his interrogators that Grant would _not_ do what he ordered if Jemma’s life weren’t in danger.

It won’t be enough to entirely clear his name, of course—it’s purely circumstantial—but it’ll be enough to allay suspicions.

It’ll probably never be necessary, but, despite that, it’s an entirely reasonable precaution, and a good plan. Still…

“Is that a problem?” Garrett asks, voice deceptively mild.

“No, sir,” Grant says automatically. It’s the only acceptable response. It does lead nicely to the other thing he needs to address, though. “But we’re gonna need to have words about the injuries those men gave Jemma.”

Garrett laughs. “I would expect nothing less, son.”

Good. He’s glad to have that off his chest, even if the bulk of the discussion will have to wait for another time. If they _get_ another time, that is; the timer’s useless.

“The timer doesn’t control the explosion,” he reports, giving it one last look. “It’s just a clock.” He drops it. “Detonator must be somewhere else.”

“It’s not in here,” Garrett says, joining him by the desk. “I’d’ve found it.”

They both look around the room, as if hoping the detonator will appear out of thin air.

“There’s no time to search the whole compound,” Garrett continues, frustrated.

Then he stops, and the two of them exchange looks. The idea seems to hit them at the same time, and they approach the bulletproof glass. They’re on the same page here, as always.

Garrett says it aloud, anyway. “Maybe we can take some Semtex, use it on the doors.”

They spend a few minutes removing Semtex from the walls, and then Garrett gives him the nod, and Grant leaves him to it. He needs to find Fitz and Coulson; they’re out of time.

The lack of comms works against him here; he has to check every door he passes, and it takes him nearly a minute to find Fitz and Coulson. They’re in a room marked Biohazard Containment, which is _not_ encouraging, opening a refrigerator—the scientific type of refrigerator, that is, like Jemma keeps specimens and samples in.

“Time to go,” he tells them. “We couldn’t stop it. Four minutes and counting.”

“Almost there,” Coulson says, as Fitz opens a container in the fridge.

It releases ominous green smoke as he lifts the lid, and Grant barely keeps himself from taking a step back. He looks up to distract himself, and, without surprise, notes the explosives lining the ceiling.

“Semtex throughout here, as well,” he comments.

“This is it,” Fitz says. “325.” He removes a single test tube from the container and holds it up. “This is the one we want.”

“We gotta go,” Coulson says. “Get it up to Simmons.”

“Yeah,” Fitz agrees, and runs for the door. Grant claps him on the shoulder as he passes, more than a little relieved.

He’s worried, too, though, and not just because they apparently only found one vial of the GH-325. (Only enough for Skye, then—not enough for Garrett, and not enough for Jemma to study.) He’s also concerned because Coulson doesn’t make a move to leave.

“Sir,” he says.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Coulson promises. “Go!”

He’s a little concerned about the way Coulson’s just standing there, staring, but he’s not about to drag him out of here. So he obeys the order and runs for the main room.

He finds Garrett and Fitz working on wiring the doors with Semtex, and stands back. There’s not really enough room for three people to work on the doors, and he’s not about to get in the way and slow things down just to have something to do, so he contents himself with keeping an eye on the timer.

Which, as it happens, has just hit three minutes.

He ignores the lecture on explosives Garrett is giving Fitz in favor of watching the hallway, but there’s no sign of Coulson. Grant _really_ does not want to be the one to explain to May that Coulson is dead because he got left behind in an underground bunker wired to explode; if Coulson doesn’t show soon, someone’s going to have to go after him.

“Agent Ward,” Garrett calls, as he and Fitz move away from the doors. “Would you do the honors?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he says, joining them. He makes sure they’re all sheltered behind the wall, then pulls out his sidearm and shoots the Semtex, setting it off. A simple, if inelegant, solution to the problem of the lack of detonator.

One of the doors has been blown partially off its track, and as Grant tries to pull it farther off, Garrett forces the other open to create a big enough hole to fit through.

“Can you slip through?” he asks Fitz.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Go!” Garrett orders. “Get that drug up there.”

Fitz obeys, squeezing through the doors and taking off, grabbing his bag as he goes. So that’s Skye (hopefully) and Fitz saved, at least. Now, about the rest of them…

Garrett shouts for Coulson, but there’s no response, and after a minute, he turns to Grant. He orders him to leave, and Grant starts to protest before he can stop himself.

“Go!” Garrett interrupts. “Save the girl.”

He takes off across the room before Grant can argue any further. He considers following but, after a brief hesitation, squeezes through the gap in the doors instead. After all, orders are orders, and he won’t disobey Garrett’s. He never does. In any case, this is the perfect opportunity for Garrett to search out another sample of the GH-325. He just wishes it wasn’t under such a time limit.

If Coulson gets Garrett killed…

But he can’t think about that.

The elevator is locked down, unsurprisingly, so he goes through the door Fitz pointed out earlier. It does indeed lead to a stairwell, and he takes the steps three at a time. Fitz obviously did _not_ do the same, as Grant meets him right outside the door at the top.

“Where’s Coulson?” Fitz demands breathlessly, as they race across the concrete towards the Bus.

“Garrett went back for him,” Grant says.

Fitz breathes out a curse as they reach the bottom of the ramp. He speeds up, hurtling through the lab and towards the med-pod. Grant’s only a few steps behind.

“May,” he says, activating his comm. “Where are you?”

“Cockpit,” she says quickly.

He rounds the corner into the med-pod to find Jemma questioning Fitz about the GH-325.

“Get us off the ground,” he orders May. “Or it’ll fall out from under us.”

He hopes Garrett and Coulson are on board by now, but even if they’re not, they can’t afford to wait around for them.

May doesn’t say anything, but he can hear the vertical thrusters firing up, and the plane begins to lift just as the distinct sound of an explosion drowns them out. He _really_ hopes Garrett and Coulson are on board.

Jemma accepts the GH-325 from Fitz and takes an empty syringe from a nearby tray.

“I suppose anything’s worth a try, at this point,” she says, mostly to herself, as she fills the syringe. “I’m giving her all of it.”

Fitz places a hand on her shoulder. “Do what you have to do.”

Jemma’s just finished emptying the syringe into Skye’s arm when Coulson appears in the doorway, shouting not to give it to her.

Seriously? They all almost died for the GH-325, and suddenly Coulson’s changed his mind? What the hell?

Jemma stares at Coulson as the various machines monitoring Skye go wild. She’s flat-lining.

“I was losing her anyway,” she says. “What harm could it do?”

Skye’s heartbeat improves briefly, and there’s a moment of hope…until she starts seizing, at least.

“She’s spiking,” May says.

Jemma has one hand pressed to Skye’s forehead, looking helpless, and when Coulson demands answers, she just shakes her head.

“I don’t know,” she says, tearily.

“Do something!” Fitz demands frantically. “We have to do something!”

But there’s obviously nothing to be done, because Jemma just stands there, stroking Skye’s hair. He can see her lips moving, but can’t make out what she’s saying, over the chaos in the room. The tension is rising, reaching a boiling point as Skye seizes, and Grant can do nothing but stand helplessly by, watching. He can’t fight fatal wounds.

Eventually, though—after seconds or hours, Grant couldn’t say—the seizure stops. Skye collapses back onto the bed, and the beeping of the heart monitor returns to a steady rhythm.

“Her heartbeat,” Jemma says. “She’s stabilizing.”

“Simmons?” Coulson presses, sounding a little faint.

Jemma nods, beaming, then looks back down at Skye, obviously trying to hold back tears.

“Can someone tell me what we just saw?” Grant asks. He _knows_ what they just saw—he has eyes—but he can’t believe it. Did some drug they pulled out of a fridge on a whim, on a fool’s hope, _actually_ just save Skye’s life?

“Girl’s a fighter,” Trip says. “What was that stuff you just gave her?”

Wow. How did Trip miss the memo on _that_? Usually he’s more on top of things; he must have been distracted by something. Maybe the bar.

Jemma brushes off the question, which Trip accepts easily enough. Possibly because she’s actually crying now, albeit silently. Grant twitches with the urge to go to her, but the room is very crowded, and there’s no way to get to Jemma’s side without knocking over half his team. He distracts himself by glancing at Garrett, who gives him a barely perceptible nod.

So, he got a sample of the GH-325 after all. Good. They’ve got proof it works, both on the dead (Coulson), and on the nearly so (Skye).

He’ll want to do some testing on it before taking it, of course, but…Garrett’s life is saved. Grant feels almost dizzy with relief. After all these years of worrying, of wondering, of fearing that each moment might be the last…Garrett _finally_ has the tool to save himself from the death SHIELD would have given him in Sarajevo.

“You did it,” May says to Coulson, smiling.

Coulson doesn’t share her relief, though. He takes one last look at Skye, then leaves. May steps slightly out of the med-pod to speak with Garrett in the hall and Grant, next to the door, hears her ask Garrett if something happened down there.

“I’m not sure,” Garrett says. “One minute, he was fine. The next, it was like he had seen a ghost.”

Grant doesn’t have time to ponder that, because it’s at that point that Jemma brushes away her tears and turns to look at them all.

“All right,” she says. “Skye is, for the moment, on the mend. Now I need all of you to leave while I examine her.”

“Simmons—” Fitz starts.

“I can’t work with all of you in here,” Jemma insists. “I’ll let you know as soon as my examination is complete, but you need to leave.”

She chases them all out, and, some more reluctantly than others, they leave the med-pod and gather in the lab, instead. Coulson is nowhere to be seen, and after a glance at the monitor—still displaying the security feed from the med-pod—May leaves, presumably in search of him.

“So,” Trip says after a while. “You have fun?”

“Oh, sure,” Fitz mutters. “Getting shot at, exposed to biohazards, nearly blown up…what’s not to love?”

Trip raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like a party. Sorry to miss it.”

“Next time,” Garrett promises, clapping him on the shoulder.

“How were things here?” Grant asks.

“Mostly quiet,” Trip says. “But whatever it was you brought from that bunker, you brought it just in time. Your friend was in bad shape. Coded twice.”

They all look to the monitor, where Jemma is currently pulling the blanket back over Skye, apparently having finished checking her wounds.

“That soulmate of yours is something else,” Trip muses. “You lucked out, Ward.”

“I did,” he agrees, because it’s very, very true.

Coulson and May must have been watching the feed from upstairs, because they enter the lab from the cargo bay only seconds before Jemma appears from the storage area. She’s smiling, but shakes her head as she strips off her gloves.

“Well, I can’t explain it,” she says. “But Skye has drastically improved. We’ll need to monitor her for side effects and deterioration, of course, but…I’m confident in saying that she’s out of the woods now.”

The last of the tension in the lab disappears, and Grant sighs in relief. Skye’s alive. Garrett’s got the cure he needs. He managed to accomplish this mission with no one determining the nature of his involvement with the team. Everything’s going to be fine.

Now, he thinks, eyeing Jemma (who’s looking worryingly pale). What are the chances he’ll be able to convince his impossibly stubborn soulmate to take something for the pain she’s obviously suffering?

“Well,” Garrett says, distracting him. “I’m glad to hear it. And now that that’s settled, I think it’s time we took our leave.”

“Of course,” Coulson says. “Thanks for your help, John.”

“Anytime,” Garrett dismisses.

Fitz says something quietly to Jemma, then heads back into the storage area, presumably to sit with Skye. May, after exchanging a nod with Garrett, follows.

Grant has a feeling there will be no shortage of people willing to sit with Skye as she recovers. He’s grateful; it means he’s more likely to be able to pull Jemma away from her.

“I’ll go sign those transfer papers,” Coulson says. “They’re still on my desk. I hope.”

Watching him leave the lab, Grant doesn’t think it’s his imagination that the light-hearted act is a little less sincere than usual. Something in that bunker shook him. But what?

“Ward,” Trip says, catching his attention. “Nice seeing you again.”

“You, too,” Grant says, shaking his hand. “Thanks for the help.”

“Not sure how much help I was,” Trip shrugs. “But you know if you ever need more…”

“First man I’ll call,” Grant agrees. “Right back at you.”

Trip nods and, after a brief, polite exchange with Jemma, excuses himself and leaves the lab. This leaves Grant with Jemma and Garrett, and he crosses the room to stand in front of his mentor.

“Good working with you again, sir,” Grant says, shaking his hand. It really was. He doesn’t hate being on Coulson’s team as much as he expected to (and for more reasons than just Jemma, although she’s the biggest one), but he _has_ missed working with Garrett.

“You too, son,” Garrett says. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to ditch Coulson’s team and come back to mine?”

“Sorry, sir,” he says. “I think I’ll be sticking it out here.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Garrett nods. He claps Grant on the shoulder, then turns to Jemma. “It was nice meeting you, Jemma. Keep an eye on your soulmate for me, would you? Keep him out of trouble.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jemma promises with a smile. “However, contrary to what today’s events may have led you to believe, I’m not _actually_ a miracle worker, so…”

Garrett laughs. “Understood. Your best is all I ask.”

“It was nice meeting you, as well,” Jemma says. “Take care.”

“And you,” Garrett says. He shakes Grant’s hand again, then leaves.

As soon as he’s out of sight, Jemma leans heavily against the lab table behind her, and Grant straightens in concern.

“Jemma?”

“I’m fine,” she assures him. It’s unconvincing, especially with the way she’s got one hand pressed to her ribs. “I’ve just…rather overdone it, I’m afraid.”

No kidding. Between keeping Skye alive, looking into Coulson’s medical file, waiting up all night at the trauma center, and everything that happened yesterday…he’s honestly impressed that she’s even standing right now.

He tucks some of her hair behind her ear, brushing his thumb along her cheek. She looks tired, and pale, and like she’s in a severe amount of pain, but she’s still beautiful. It’s a little ridiculous, actually.

“If I tell you to take some fentanyl and go to bed,” he says. “Are you going to fight me?”

Jemma shakes her head. “No, I’m not. As long as you promise to wake me if Skye begins to deteriorate again.”

“Is that likely?” he asks, glancing at the monitor. Fitz is still in the med-pod with Skye, but May has disappeared. Either she took the ladder up to the cabin level, or she’s hanging around in one of the storage closets. Probably the former, although he wouldn’t put the latter past her. For one thing, it’s probably best if she doesn’t lay eyes on Quinn again.

“No,” Jemma says. “Whatever the GH-325 actually is, it was enough to repair Agent Coulson’s heart after it was torn in half. Comparatively speaking, Skye’s wounds are no more significant than a paper cut. But…promise me anyway.”

“I promise,” he says. “Now, will you _please_ take a pill? Or seven?”

“Seven’s a little extreme, I think,” she muses. “I’ll stick with one.”

He hurries to fetch the fentanyl from the first aid kit before she can think up some other responsibility that she believes outweighs her wellbeing, and watches in satisfaction as she takes one of the tablets. She’s already swaying from exhaustion, and he has a feeling that once the fentanyl kicks in, she’ll just collapse where she stands.

He should probably get her to bed before that happens.

“You think you can make it up the stairs?” he asks, considering the way she’s still leaning against the table.

“I’m going to have to,” she says, frowning at him. “I’ll not have you carrying me around like some, some…”

She trails off, gesturing vaguely.

“Damsel?” he supplies after a moment.

“Yes, exactly,” Jemma nods, pleased. “I am not a damsel, and this is our place of employment. Therefore you will _not_ be carrying me anywhere.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “In that case, we should probably go upstairs now. Because I’m not just going to leave you on the floor of the lab if you pass out here.”

“I should hope not,” she says, starting out of the lab. He walks closely behind her, a little concerned that she’s going to faint even _without_ the fentanyl’s help; she still got a hand pressed to her ribs, and there’s pain written all over her face, for all that she’s good at keeping it out of her voice.

God save him from self-sacrificing soulmates. One of these days she’s going to work herself to death in order to save someone, and then what will he do? He resolves, as he follows her up the stairs, to keep a closer eye on her from now on.

Jemma stumbles a little as they cross the cabin, and he steadies her, concerned.

“I’m fine,” she assures him. “Although I really shouldn’t have taken that on an empty stomach. That was silly of me.”

“You want something to eat?” he asks, pausing at the door to his bunk.

“No, I don’t think so,” Jemma says, moving past him to enter the bunk. “I’m afraid it will have to wait. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be conscious.”

He shakes his head, a little amused at her matter-of-fact statement, and follows her in, sliding the door closed behind him.

He helps her shrug off her cardigan and remove her necklace, then kneels to untie her shoes for her. It’s a mark of how much pain she’s in that she lets him do the last thing, because she’s been insisting on doing it herself, the last few days, even though he knows it still hurts her.

“Thank you,” she says around a yawn as she lies down. “Are you going to join me?”

“In a bit,” he says. “I need to take care of a few things, first. Do you need anything before I go?”

“I’m fine,” she says, reaching out and grabbing his hand. She squeezes it gently, smiling at him. “Thank you, Grant. I’m sorry to worry you so much.”

He squeezes her hand in return, then lets go and steps away from the bed.

“Don’t be,” he says quietly. “Not like I make it any easier on you, is it?”

She hums vaguely, already mostly asleep, and he leaves the bunk, sliding the door closed again behind him.

He feels so much lighter now. Everything that’s been weighing on him—his worry for Garrett, his inability to discover the secret of Coulson’s survival, his guilt over Skye and Coulson getting caught up in Centipede’s plans—is gone now. He feels almost like a new man.

Garrett’s got a cure, now. That means two things: one, he won’t be dying anytime soon, and two, Grant’s mission is complete. From now on, he won’t have to worry about gaining Coulson’s trust or about trying to find a way to get him to talk.

He can focus on protecting Jemma, and the rest of the team, without worrying about anything else. Garrett and Skye are saved. Jemma’s on the mend. Coulson’s apparently on the way to a mental break down or something, but that’s not really Grant’s problem.

It’s all smooth sailing from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do tend to end chapters with Grant and/or Jemma going to sleep, don’t I? In my defense, the show puts the team through the wringer in every episode. If I were them, I’d be headed to bed as soon as the cameras turned away, for fear of whatever’s coming next.
> 
> Especially since I actually know what’s coming next, lol.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	15. Yes Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Asgardian sorceress is loose on Earth. The team attempts to capture her. Predictably, things go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks for all of the comments and kudos. They mean a lot. :)
> 
> Second, I'm sure you all are aware of the very questionable events of this episode. I don't want to put spoilers in the beginning author's note, but if you need, for your own mental health, to know how I've chosen to handle things, I've written about it in the end note. I hope that's a solution that works for everyone.
> 
> Third, as the season premiere is tonight, I want to reiterate that developments in season two will _not_ affect this story. As far as the plot and characters and background for this story are concerned, the show was canceled after one season, okay?
> 
> Okay, I think that's everything. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

He really should have expected it. In fact, he’s a little embarrassed that he didn’t. Of course, in his defense, there was a _lot_ going on at the time, but still.

Of _course_ Jemma becomes obsessed with the GH-325. Of course she does. Her entire reason for joining SHIELD was to save lives, and she’s just been handed a drug that can bring someone back from the dead.

Unfortunately, she was only handed one vial of the drug, and she had to use it to save Skye’s life. All of the rest of the existing samples of the drug are currently buried under a mountain—at least as far as the rest of the team knows—and there’s no way she can just call up SHIELD and ask for details. She only has two sources of information on the drug: Coulson’s medical file, which is full of acronyms and codes for which she has no reference, and Skye herself.

Hence the habit she’s developed of drawing blood from Skye on a near-hourly basis. He has no idea what kind of tests she’s running, or what she hopes to do with the results, but she’s spending all of her time on it. It’s a good thing he can do his work just as easily from the lab as from the lounge, or else he’d never see her at all.

Fitz, of course, is with her every step of the way. He, however, is motivated less by the need to save lives (not to say that he isn’t invested in that possibility—he is, just not to the same degree as Jemma) and more by his lingering guilt over Skye’s injury. Jemma has been trying to convince him it’s not his fault, but she’s not having much success. It’s only been ten days, and they’ve already gone six rounds about it.

“If I had just gone with her—”

Make that seven.

“No, Fitz,” Jemma interrupts firmly. “The only person at fault for Skye’s condition is the man who shot her: Quinn.” She pauses, then sighs. “Admittedly, Skye’s actions _were_ rather on the foolish side of brave, but…”

Her words, intended to calm him, have the opposite effect. Fitz spins around to face her, glaring.

“Oh, like you have any room to talk,” he snaps.

Jemma’s eyes go wide. “Don’t be silly, Fitz. I have no _idea_ what you’re on about.”

Grant straightens, his eyes narrowing. He recognizes that awkward tone. She’s lying. She knows exactly what Fitz is talking about and, judging by the nervous glance she just gave him, she doesn’t want Grant to hear it.

“You know _exactly_ what I’m on about,” Fitz disagrees, apparently missing—or just not caring about—her cue.

“No, I don’t,” Jemma claims unconvincingly. She starts fussing with her tablet and heads for the door back to the storage area. “But I need to check on Skye, so we can talk about this later.”

“Or we can talk about it now,” Grant suggests mildly. Jemma stops in her tracks. “Fitz? You have something to say?”

“Oh,” Fitz says. “Oh, so you didn’t tell him, did you, Simmons?”

She sighs and turns back around, laying her tablet on the holotable. “Fitz—”

“No, of course you didn’t,” Fitz continues. “Because you know _exactly_ how he’d react—how any _sensible_ person would react!”

“There was no need to dwell on it, Fitz,” Jemma says, a little pleadingly. “It happened, and it’s over, and there were much more important things to worry about!”

“Well, there’s nothing to worry about now,” Fitz says. “So do you want to tell him, or shall I?”

“Fitz—”

“Tell me what?” Grant asks. He’s starting to get a very, very bad feeling about this, and he’s not in the mood to wait through ten rounds of the FitzSimmons show to get answers. “Jemma?”

Jemma looks at him, and then away, towards the door. She might _actually_ be considering making a run for it, and now he’s really concerned.

“Did you never wonder, Agent Ward,” Fitz says. “How it was that, of the three of us, Simmons was the only one to be affected by the stasis grenade?”

Actually, no. He didn’t. He was so relieved to find her alive and well, and then so focused on finding Skye and Fitz, that it never even occurred to him to wonder. But now that Fitz mentions it, it is a little surprising. Those things have a pretty wide range on them—the one that caught him and Coulson did so from nearly ten feet away. If one of them went off in the luggage car, it should’ve caught all three of them.

So how didn’t it?

“No,” he says slowly. “I didn’t. Should I have?”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Jemma says. “It’s all in the past, and completely—”

“You should have,” Fitz says over her. “Because the reason Simmons was the only one affected is because she _threw herself on it_.”

There’s a long moment of silence. The beeping of the monitor near the door suddenly seems very loud.

“She what?” Grant asks, very calmly and very quietly.

“She threw herself on it,” Fitz repeats. “Like she was Captain bloody America.”

Grant takes a deep breath.

He’s spent his fair share of time in war-zones. He’s seen grenades— _real_ grenades—in action, seen exactly the damage they can do. He’s seen a man throw himself on top of one, too, and he saw exactly what was—and _wasn’t_ —left of the guy.

He’s completely helpless to stop himself from imagining Jemma in that man’s place.

The image sends his rage spiking way out of control, and he’s honestly not sure that he’ll be able to keep from letting it loose at Jemma if he stays here another minute. So he pushes away from the table he’s been leaning against and walks out of the lab without a word.

He doesn’t stop in the cargo bay; he walks right off the Bus and into the hangar they’re parked in, then cuts across it and enters the main base. Once inside, he heads straight for the gym. May’s techniques aren’t going to cut it right now—he’ll need to work off some of this rage before he can put the rest of it away. Luckily, this is a fairly large base; he’s sure he can find _someone_ stupid enough to take him on.

\---

When Jemma comes to find him three hours later, he’s taken down half of the base’s field agents. Some of them got in some lucky hits in the process, so he’s bruised and bleeding, but he’s beaten every single one of them. It hasn’t put a dent in his rage.

Every time he lets his focus waver from the pattern of sparring—hit, dodge, hit, hit, weave, kick, dodge, hit—his mind goes straight to the image of Jemma throwing herself on a grenade. He pictures walking into that luggage car and finding pieces of his soulmate splattered on the walls. He pictures a closed casket funeral. He pictures the rest of his life, alone.

So, yeah. He’s still burning with fury when Jemma walks into the training room.

He sees her enter from the corner of his eye, but he’s still way too angry to deal with her. He’s not going to talk to her until he’s got himself back under control. He won’t risk it. So he keeps his back to her, helps up the man he’s just beaten down, and walks out of the sparring ring and into the men’s locker room.

In a move he really should have predicted, Jemma follows.

There are three men in the locker room already, and they all snap to attention as Jemma enters. They look between Grant’s thunderous face and whatever expression Jemma’s wearing, then clear out hastily, without a word of complaint.

As the door swings shut behind them, he crosses the room to the stack of towels in the corner. After sparring non-stop for three hours, he’s dripping with sweat. He needs a shower, but that’ll have to wait until he’s back on the Bus. For the moment, he contents himself with rubbing a towel over his face and the back of his neck.

“The silent treatment, Grant?” Jemma asks. “Really? That’s a little childish, don’t you think?”

He tosses the towel into a hamper, taking a deep breath. He really can’t do this now.

“You can’t ignore me forever,” she persists. She’s followed him across the room; she’s right behind him now.

He turns without looking at her and walks around her, towards the door. He’s barely made it three steps, however, before she latches on to his wrist.

“ _Grant_ ,” she says. “We have to talk about this.”

His frayed control snaps entirely, and he whirls to face her.

“You wanna talk about this?” he demands. “Okay. Let’s talk. Where should we start? Should we start with your death wish?”

Jemma gasps, offended. “I do _not_ have a death wish!”

“No?” he asks. “You threw yourself on a _grenade_ , Jemma.”

“It wasn’t a real grenade,” she protests.

“And did you know that when you threw yourself on it?”

She opens her mouth, closes it, and then takes a deep breath.

“Well, no, but—”

“But _nothing_ ,” he interrupts. “You threw yourself onto what you had every reason to believe was a dangerous explosive device, and you can’t tell me you didn’t know exactly what it would do to you. That’s a fucking death wish.”

“It was the only reasonable course of action,” she says. “And, furthermore, one isolated incident does not constitute a death wish!”

“It’s not _one_ incident,” he snaps. “You threw yourself out of a plane at forty thousand feet, _without_ a parachute—”

“That was to save the rest of you,” she protests. “I was dying already!”

“Then how about the fact that you’re here at all? You have _no training_ , no way of defending yourself—”

“Isn’t that _your_ job?” she interrupts.

“I can’t protect you from _yourself_ , Jemma!” he shouts.

She starts a little at his raised voice, and he closes his eyes. Shit. This is why he didn’t want to do this now.

Opening his eyes, he takes a deep breath and makes a concerted effort to lower his voice.

“I can protect you from insurgents,” he says. “I can protect you from guns…and explosives…and Coulson’s half-assed plans. What I can’t do is protect you from your own recklessness.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupts. “Mancini pulled one of those things on Coulson and me, and neither of us jumped on it. We _ran_ , which is the only smart thing to do when someone comes at you with a grenade.”

“I couldn’t—”

“You think it didn’t kill me to do that?” he demands over her. “Jumping off the train, knowing you three were in the luggage car, vulnerable and defenseless? I did it anyway. Because I knew that I couldn’t protect you if I was _dead_.”

Jemma sighs. “Grant, I know you’re angry, but—”

“Oh, I’m more than angry,” he says. “I’m _furious_. But I’m also terrified.”

“What?” she asks, pulling back slightly. He can tell she wasn’t expecting that. Honestly, he wasn’t expecting to admit it. But he can see that his current course is only putting her back up, and this one might get through to her. So he keeps going.

“I’m terrified,” he repeats. “That one of these days your luck is gonna run out, and you’re gonna pull another stunt like this, only the grenade will be real—or I won’t make it with the parachute in time. One of these days, you’re gonna get yourself _killed_ doing something reckless and brave.”

Jemma opens her mouth, then closes it, her eyes flickering away.

“Now you tell me something, Jemma,” he says. “You sacrifice your life to save someone else, and where does that leave me?”

“I don’t…” She breaks off, shaking her head.

“I spent my whole life waiting for you,” he tells her, entirely honestly. “Ten years as a specialist? I nearly died a thousand times. But I kept going. I kept _fighting_ —for you. Because I wanted to live, to meet you. And since I finally did, I’ve been sent into a war-zone with no extraction. I’ve been shot—twice. I’ve been exposed to an ancient artifact that entirely destroyed my control. But I fought through it, and I survived. For _you_.”

Her eyes are filled with tears, but he’s not done.

“So let me ask you something,” he says quietly. Most of his anger is gone, replaced with exhaustion. “Don’t I deserve the same?”

“ _Grant_ ,” she says, choked.

“Maybe not,” he says. He pulls his wrist out of her grasp, then turns away and walks out, leaving her standing alone in the locker room.

It’s a secure base. She’ll be fine.

\---

After he returns to the Bus and showers, he searches out Coulson. He’s calmed down enough now to regret what just happened in the locker room. He shouldn’t have unloaded on Jemma like that, shouldn’t have yelled at her. She’s too brave for her own good, he’s known that since the day he met her—since _before_ he met her, really. He read her psych evals long before he set foot on this plane; he knew exactly what he was getting into.

He really should have adjusted to it by now, but he hasn’t, as evidenced by the fact that he’s still furious. He knows that it’ll be a while before he’s able to look at her without picturing her dead, blown to pieces by a grenade, which means it’ll be a while before he’s able to look at her without being overtaken by blinding fury.

What he needs is some time away from her, and luckily, he knows exactly how to get it.

The Bus is, for the moment, grounded. They’re not on downtime like they were after Coulson’s torture—Skye’s not even an agent, let alone their team leader—but they are on standby, and since they’re grounded at a SHIELD base, that’s essentially the same thing.

Standby means that they’re not being assigned any routine missions. They’ll only be called out if an incident deemed Priority Level Three or higher occurs—and even then, it’ll only fall to them if they’re the closest team. Since they’re currently at a base _full_ of response teams—all of which are in full working order, unlike them—this means that they are, effectively, off the clock.

As such, Grant has once again been extended the offer to temporarily return to the specialist rotation. For all that it’s the second time he’s been given the option, it’s far out of character for SHIELD. Generally speaking, SHIELD just sends its specialists wherever it wants them, with no regard for the specialist in question’s feelings on the topic. It’s a mark of the wide-spread respect Coulson commands that SHIELD isn’t just pulling Grant right off the team—and a mark of his skill that it still extends the offer, despite that respect for Coulson.

Grant appreciates the offer, but he turned it down as soon as he got it, reluctant to leave Jemma while she’s still healing. Now, however, leaving Jemma is exactly what he wants to do—needs to do, really—so he corners Coulson in his office.

“Sir,” he says. “Do you have a moment?”

“Of course,” Coulson says, setting aside his paperwork. “What’s on your mind, Ward?”

“I wanted to let you know that I intend to return to the specialist rotation,” he says.

Coulson sits back. “Really.”

“Just while the team’s on standby,” Grant assures him.

“We need you here, Ward.”

“Respectfully, sir,” he says. “You really don’t. I think I’ll do more good on the rotation.”

“Mike Peterson is still at large,” Coulson points out.

True.

One of the first things Skye told them, once she regained consciousness, was that Mike Peterson is still alive. Apparently the hyperbaric chamber Jemma used to save Skye’s life wasn’t just Quinn’s idea of interesting décor; Skye told them that Peterson had been sleeping inside it. Quinn woke him up and gave him the package from the train, which turned out to be a high-tech prosthetic leg. Quinn also apparently made reference to other technology within him _and_ said that Peterson was getting orders from the Clairvoyant, so the team is assuming that Peterson is in possession of one of the high-tech eyes, as well.

Grant, with that information, has concluded that Peterson’s been inducted into the Deathlok project. The rest of the team doesn’t know anything about it, of course, aside from the name—and even that was given to them by Garrett. For lack of other leads, Coulson has decided to concentrate their efforts on finding Peterson. Garrett’s taking the lead, but the team is assisting in the search.

Which is all well and good, except it’s going nowhere.

“He is,” Grant agrees. “But we’re no closer to finding him than we were when Skye first told us about him, sir. Combing through half the CCTV footage in Italy is a long shot, and it’s not something you need me for.”

“Maybe not,” Coulson admits. He leans forward and laces his fingers together, giving Grant a searching look. For a moment, Grant thinks he’s going to ask the obvious question—which is to say, why he’s suddenly changed his mind—but, thankfully, he doesn’t. “Okay, fair enough. When are you leaving?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, making sure to keep his relief out of his voice. “I wanted to let you know before I called in.”

“I appreciate that,” Coulson says. “Keep me informed, please.”

It’s a request and a dismissal in one, so Grant agrees and excuses himself. Now all that’s left is to call in to HQ—and hope that it’s got something that needs immediate action.

\---

Luckily, it does. Grant’s ordered to report to the base hangar for transport in half an hour, to be immediately deployed to Muscat. He accepts the assignment with relief, informs Coulson (who shakes his hand and wishes him luck, though not without a disapproving frown), and returns to his bunk to grab his go-bag.

He double checks that it has everything he’ll need, tosses in an extra magazine for good measure, and is just zipping it up when the door to his bunk slides open.

“You’re leaving?” Jemma demands.

Great. Thanks, Coulson.

“Yeah,” he says. He unzips the duffle bag and begins to rifle through it, mostly as an excuse to avoid looking at her. “Gotta report to the hangar in a few minutes.”

“You’re leaving,” she repeats. She sounds angry. “Really? We have one _minor_ disagreement and you’re running away?”

He takes a deep breath and zips his duffle back up. “I need some time.”

“Time,” she says flatly. “Time away from me? Because of one decision I made in the heat of the moment—”

“Do you regret it?” he interrupts, turning to face her.

“What?” she asks, derailed.

“Do you regret jumping on the grenade?” he clarifies.

She lifts her chin. “No. It was the right thing to do. And if I hadn’t done, it would have caught all three of us, and Quinn would’ve got away.”

“And Skye wouldn’t have been shot.”

Jemma looks like she’s been struck. She inhales sharply, taking a step back, and he instantly regrets his words.

He knows for a fact that they aren’t true—the entire escapade on the train was a trap orchestrated for the sole purpose of critically wounding a member of the team. He _knows_ that. The words were said purely to wound her, and they did their job well.

Fuck.

This isn’t who he is. He doesn’t say things just to hurt Jemma. He doesn’t _deliberately_ cause his soulmate pain. That’s his father. That’s Maynard. It’s not him.

This is why he needs to get away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t—”

“No,” Jemma interrupts. She’s blinking rapidly, obviously trying to hold back tears, and something in his gut twists at the sight. “No, you’re right. It’s true.”

“No, it isn’t,” he says, frustrated. “You’ve seen the transcript from Quinn’s interrogation. The Clairvoyant _told_ him to shoot Skye to force Coulson to find the GH-325. If the grenade had caught all three of you, Cybertek’s man would’ve just shot her then and there. The only thing that would’ve changed is there wouldn’t have been a hyperbaric chamber to put Skye in and she probably would have died for real.”

She looks away.

“It’s not true,” he reiterates. “Jumping on that grenade didn’t get Skye shot, Jemma. It’s not true.”

She looks back up at him, hurt written all over her face. “Then why did you say it?”

_To hurt you_ , he doesn’t say, even though it’s the truth. Admitting it to himself is hard enough; he can’t possibly admit it to Jemma. She’d never look at him the same and he couldn’t bear that, no matter how much he deserves it.

“Because I’m angry,” he says instead. “Because you’re careless with your life and it pisses me off.”

“I’m not,” she starts to protest. Then she stops, shaking her head. “Actually, let’s not start that again.”

“Probably a good idea,” he agrees dryly.

She heaves a sigh. “What do you need? How can I fix this?”

“I need some time,” he says again. He leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, then picks up his duffle and slings it over his shoulder. “And you can’t.”

He cups her shoulders and gently moves her aside, then walks out of the bunk. Jemma follows closely.

“So that’s it, then?” she asks. She sounds subdued, all of the fight gone from her, and, perversely, that pisses him off even more. “You’re just going to leave?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

He watches from the corner of his eye as she wrings her hands. Regardless of his anger, he can’t bear to leave her like this, clearly already worrying over him in spite of how much of an asshole he’s been to her today. So he stops in the middle of the lounge and turns to face her.

“It’s a short op,” he tells her. “In and out, three days at the most. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Now that I don’t believe,” she says, but she looks a little less tense. He doesn’t know what she was thinking—maybe that he wasn’t coming back?—but apparently he’s eased her worries. “You’ll be careful?”

There’s plenty he could say to that, but, as angry as he is, he still doesn’t want to leave on bad terms (well, _worse_ terms). So all he does is nod.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he repeats. He tucks some of her hair behind her ear, lets his hand linger on her face for a moment, and then drops it. “Take it easy on your ribs while I’m gone.”

She’s doing better—she’s back to her regular hours, so that’s something—but she’s still not fully healed.

“I will,” she promises.

There’s a long silence and, for what must be the first time ever, it’s awkward between them.

“Well,” he says eventually. “Bye.”

“Goodbye, Grant,” she says. She looks sad, and it tears at him, but it’s not enough to ease his anger any. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” he says.

He leaves her standing there in the lounge, and every step feels like a mistake. But he knows it’s not.

He needs time, that’s all.

\---

It does the trick. By the time he finishes the post-op debrief, three days later, he’s got full control over his anger again. It’s much easier now, since the bulk of it has faded, replaced by a resigned acceptance.

Jemma wants to save lives. It’s what motivates the vast majority of her actions. It’s the reason she’s been endlessly studying Skye’s blood in hopes of discovering more about the GH-325, even against Coulson’s express orders. It’s the reason she studied biochemistry. It’s the reason she joined SHIELD in the first place, for crying out loud.

Of course, when faced with a grenade, she couldn’t just run away. Not if she wasn’t completely positive that Skye and Fitz would make it away in time, which she obviously wasn’t. Of course she would throw herself on the grenade, just like she threw herself out of the Bus. Of course she would think it was the right thing to do, despite the very real potential it had to kill her.

Of course she wouldn’t understand why he disagreed.

He can’t say he’s happy about it, but, with the benefit of time and distance, he can admit that he wouldn’t change it, even if he could. Her dedication, her desire to do good and save lives—the way she _cares_ , about _everyone_ , friends and strangers both—is a major part of what he loves about her. Without it, she’d be an entirely different person, and he doesn’t _want_ a different person.

Just one that’s a little more careful.

Still, there’s nothing he can do about it. All he can do, as he’s told himself again and again, is protect her. Of course, that’s always been his main goal. This whole incident has just served as a reminder that he needs to protect her from _herself_ , as much as from everything else.

One thing’s for sure, though. He _won’t_ be leaving her side in the field ever again, Coulson and his plans be damned.

The point is, most of his anger is gone by the time he makes it back to the Bus, and what isn’t gone is firmly under control. So when he walks into the cargo bay and lays eyes on Jemma for the first time in three days, he’s able to greet her with a smile.

“Hey.”

Jemma jumps a little, nearly knocking a stack of papers off the corner of her workstation, and whirls around.

“Grant!” she exclaims, beaming. “You’re back!”

She hesitates, obviously unsure of whether or not to hug him. That stings, but it’s not unexpected, considering how much of an ass he was the last time he saw her. He didn’t even kiss her goodbye, and _that_ is something he’s spent the past two days regretting. (It only took one day away from her to cool down. The next two were spent brooding. And crossing off SHIELD’s enemies, but that goes without saying.)

So he saves her the trouble of deciding. He drops his duffle and tugs her forward, into his arms. She hugs him tightly, giving a little sigh, like a great weight has been lifted from her shoulders. Once again, he regrets the way he left, even though he knows it was entirely necessary.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

He leans back a little to look at her. “For what?”

“Not for jumping on the grenade,” she clarifies. “That was entirely necessary and I stand by my actions. But I suppose I could have been a little more understanding of your reaction. After all, I’m sure I’d feel the same if _you_ did anything so foolish.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “And I’m sorry for being such an asshole to you about it. And for shouting at you.”

“You _were_ a bit of a prat,” she agrees. “But you’re forgiven. Just this once.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and leans down to kiss her.

She surges up to meet him, and it’s just starting to get heated—not surprisingly, after three days of nothing—when there’s an offended squawk from the door leading to the storage area.

“Simmons!”

Jemma smiles against his mouth and pulls away. “Yes, Fitz?”

“Don’t _yes_ me,” Fitz snaps. “You know the rules!”

“My soulmate has just returned from three days in what was doubtless a very dangerous location, after a fight which _you_ caused,” she points out, although her tone is much cheerier than her words would suggest. “I believe that we can let the rules slide, just this once.”

“No, no we can’t,” Fitz disagrees. “And I did _not_ cause that fight, thanks very much. _You_ and your blatant disregard for—”

“Yes, thank you, Fitz,” Jemma interrupts loudly. “You’ve made your point.” She looks up at Grant. “Are you injured?”

“Just a little,” he says. “It’s already been treated.”

She just looks at him.

“But you want to see it anyway, right?” he asks, amused.

“Yes, please,” she says pleasantly.

He shrugs off his jacket, drapes it on the back of a nearby stool, and tugs up his sleeve to show her the cut on his left arm. It’s not particularly long, but it is deep, and she tuts over the stitches.

“These look in order,” she admits grudgingly. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me what caused this?”

Fortunately for him, the whole op is classified.

“Sorry,” he says. “That’s above your clearance level. How are your ribs?”

Jemma rolls her eyes, but allows the deflection. “Fine. I believe they’ll be fully healed by the end of the week, in fact.”

The end of the week will make five weeks since she was first injured. It sounds about right.

“Good to hear,” he says, relieved. He glances at her workstation, taking in what he’s pretty sure is a copy of Coulson’s medical file. “How about your research into the GH-325? How’s that going?”

Her smile fades, replaced by annoyance.

“Slowly,” she grouses. “It would be faster if—oh, not again!”

Her eyes have wandered to the monitor, still displaying the security feed from the med-pod, where Skye appears to be preparing to leave her bed.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I have to—”

“Go,” he tells her. “It’s fine.”

She pats his uninjured arm with a distracted smile, then hurries back into the storage area. Grant wants to check in with Skye, himself, but first he should drop his duffle in his bunk. The last thing he wants is another lecture about leaving tripping hazards in the middle of the lab.

He glances at Fitz, but the engineer is obviously fully involved in his work, bent over his computer and muttering to himself, so Grant leaves him be.

He grabs his duffle and heads upstairs. As he crosses the lounge, he finds himself wondering about Coulson. Lola was missing from the cargo bay, which means Coulson’s gone somewhere. Again. He’s been disappearing a lot lately, even more than he did after he was kidnapped by Centipede, and Grant wonders if it has anything to do with what happened in the Guest House.

Well, whatever. It’s not really his problem, not anymore.

He drops his duffle in his bunk—noting that the bed is made slightly unevenly; Jemma’s been sleeping in it, even with him gone, and that warms him even more than her concern over his incredibly minor injury did—then heads back downstairs.

He cuts through the storage area to the med-pod, and finds Jemma in the process of criticizing Skye’s vocabulary.

“That’s…not even a word,” she’s saying. She sounds more amused than anything, so he feels safe interrupting.

“Hey,” he says, knocking on the doorframe. “This a bad time?”

Skye pushes herself up a little, wincing as she does. “It is if you’re here to bust me out. The warden has extended house arrest.”

She says the second sentence in a truly terrible attempt at an English accent, and Jemma rolls her eyes.

“Ugh,” she scoffs. “Awful accent.”

She leaves the med-pod, squeezing Grant’s arm as she passes him, and heads back to the lab.

“I saw that,” Skye says, prompting him to tear his eyes away from Jemma’s retreating form.

“What?” he asks.

“That smile you gave Simmons,” she says. “Did you two make up?”

“We did,” he confirms. Then he changes the subject, because the last thing he wants is to talk about his relationship with his soulmate with Skye, of all people. “It’s good to see you looking better.”

They talk for a while, about Peterson and the Deathlok program (what very, very little they know about it) and Quinn, and he leaves the med-pod feeling strangely unsettled. He doesn’t know why, he just…does.

Whatever. He’s just off a three-day op. He probably just needs some sleep—not to mention some time with Jemma.

With that in mind, he heads back to the lab, intending to tempt her away from her work. Unfortunately, he’s barely entered the room when May comes on the intercom and summons them for a briefing. Jemma and Fitz exchange confused looks, then turn to him.

“We’re on standby,” Jemma says. “We shouldn’t be getting any missions, should we?”

“Unless it’s Priority Level Three or above,” Fitz points out. “And even then…”

“No rest for the wicked, I guess,” he sighs. “There’s one way to find out. Let’s go.”

The three of them troop upstairs to the briefing room to find May waiting for them. There’s no sign of Coulson—unsurprising, since Lola is still missing from the cargo bay—and when Grant asks after his whereabouts, all May says is that he’s taking personal time.

Helpful.

Jemma’s more concerned with the readings SHIELD is picking up above the California-Nevada border.

“These are the same readings Dr. Selvig and Dr. Foster picked up in New Mexico _and_ in London,” she says, studying the information on the holocom. “They herald the arrival of an Asgardian.”

Fitz gapes. “Thor.”

“Not sure,” May says. “Either way, SHIELD wants _us_ to be the welcome wagon.”

“O-okay,” Fitz says. “Fine. No cause for concern. Right?” He points at Grant. “Asgardians are allies.”

Grant hates to burst his bubble, but…

“Loki wasn’t,” he reminds him. And considering their luck, he thinks Loki, or someone like him, is a lot more likely.

After that, there’s nothing more to really say, so he leaves the briefing room. May falls into step with him as he crosses the lounge.

“Why are we getting called in for this?” he asks. “Why not one of the other teams on base?”

She shakes her head. “The other teams _are_ getting called in. We’re just taking the lead.”

“HQ is sending everyone?” he asks, surprised.

“Just about,” May says.

Huh. SHIELD is really taking this threat seriously. Well, after New Mexico, New York, and London, it’s about time.

They head down to the cargo bay, Jemma and Fitz on their heels. There are several SHIELD vehicles parked at the bottom of the ramp, obviously waiting on them already.

“Do you have what you need to track the signal?” Grant asks Fitz.

He exchanges a look with Jemma.

“I’ll get the—” Fitz starts.

“Yes, do,” Jemma agrees over him. As he hurries into the lab, she turns to face Grant and May. “I believe I’ll remain on the Bus, if it’s all right with you.”

Of course it’s all right with him, but it’s a little out of character for Jemma.

“Sure,” he says, careful not to sound too eager. “But why?”

“Well, if our visitor is friendly, you won’t need me,” she says reasonably. “And, if they’re not, I won’t be much use against an Asgardian, anyway. I think I would do better to remain here and monitor Skye.”

“Good idea,” May says.

“You gonna be okay alone?” Grant asks, because he can’t not.

“Oh, I think so,” Jemma says, obviously amused. “Skye hasn’t reached the point of violent rebellion _quite_ yet, I don’t think.”

“Right,” he says. “We’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“Do be careful,” she urges. “And keep me updated, please.”

“Will do,” he agrees.

Since May is present, he contents himself with squeezing Jemma’s shoulder, rather than kissing her goodbye. She squeezes his arm in return before heading through the lab and back into the storage area. Grant watches her go, then glances at May.

“So,” he says. “What are the chances this _doesn’t_ end in disaster?”

She smiles, just a little. “Not great.”

\---

The base is mercifully close to the border, and ten minutes later, they’re on final approach to the location. Well, final-ish. According to Fitz, it’s kind of a crapshoot. And isn’t _that_ comforting.

“This is still science we don't completely understand,” Fitz says.

“Seems to be a lot of that going around lately,” Grant muses. He looks at May. “So, Coulson hasn’t talked to you? About why he changed his mind on giving Skye that injection?”

May looks at him, then back at the road. “No. He’s keeping it to himself.”

She sounds uneasy about it—understandable, since she’s undoubtedly Coulson’s closest confidant. Before he can question her any further, however, Fitz’s tablet begins beeping.

“Whoa,” he says. “I’m getting a massive energy surge. Three times the level of the one before.”

“How close?” May asks.

In answer, a portal opens in the sky above them, sending a beam of multi-colored light shining down on the road directly in front of the SUV. Of course, it’s obviously a little more solid than most light, seeing as how it kicks up a cloud of dust.

May swerves and slams on the breaks, and she and Grant hurry to get out of the car as the dust clears to reveal a well-armed woman in armor standing in the middle of the street.

“Yep,” Grant says. “Definitely Asgardian.”

“Running facial recognition,” Fitz says. He, thankfully, has the good sense to remain in the car. “Okay, got it. I don’t have a name, but I can confirm that she was in New Mexico fighting with Thor and his mates. She’s on our side.”

The Asgardian starts walking forward before Fitz finishes, and May warns the other SHIELD agents to stand down. Accordingly, Grant keeps his gun down as he moves away from the car to meet her—although, naturally, he doesn’t holster it. Just because she was friendly in New Mexico doesn’t mean she’ll be friendly today.

“You are of SHIELD?” the woman asks.

Grant’s read the reports of SHIELD’s actions in New Mexico: stealing Dr. Foster’s research, holding Thor captive, and standing around uselessly when the Destroyer touched down, basically. This particular Asgardian might not have a very good opinion of them.

Still, it’s not like all of their vehicles don’t have the logo in plain sight, so…

“Yeah,” he says slowly.

“I am Lady Sif of Asgard,” she says. “Your world is in grave danger.”

Great.

He exchanges a glance with May, then clears his throat.

“Agent Grant Ward,” he says. “This is Agent Melinda May. Would you be willing to accompany us back to our base? Give us some more detail on the way?”

Sif gives the SUV a doubtful look, then nods. “Time is of the essence. Let us go.”

May takes a moment to order the rest of the agents to return to base and await further instruction, then gets in the car. Grant and Sif follow suit, Sif a little more hesitantly.

“So,” he says as they approach the base. “What can SHIELD do to help you avert the grave danger we’re in?”

“I have need of your aid in finding someone,” Sif answers. She’s surprisingly composed for someone who, as far as he knows, has never been in a car before. Although he does note that she keeps one hand on the hilt of her sword.

Grant looks at May. She keeps her eyes on the road, but she’s frowning.

“Anyone we’d know?” he asks, voice carefully casual. They haven’t had great luck with Asgard, and he has a feeling this is going to turn into yet another instance of wishing they were alone in the universe.

“No,” Sif says definitively. “It has been many centuries since last she came to Midgard. For that, however, she is no less dangerous. Can you help me find her?”

“Oh, yeah,” Fitz says. “Absolutely.”

May pulls up the ramp into the cargo bay, and Grant’s a little relieved to see that Lola is in her— _its_ —space.

“I’ll fill him in,” May says.

“Right,” Grant agrees. “I’m gonna raise the ramp. We might have to leave in a hurry.”

She gives him a nod, and they get out of the car. Fitz leads the way into the lab as Grant pauses to raise the ramp, then follows them. Coulson and May aren’t far behind.

After a brief discussion about Coulson’s current not-dead status, and Thor’s awareness, or lack thereof, Sif gets down to business. The missing person she’s looking for is an escaped sorceress named Lorelei, who apparently has the power to ensnare men by her voice—and, if a man is particularly strong-willed, her voice combined with her touch—and make them do her bidding.

Sif has a collar that will stop Lorelei’s powers from working, but in order to use it, they have to find her first. The Bifrost apparently delivered Sif to Lorelei’s last known location, so they decide to run a search for unusual activity within a hundred-mile radius of that spot. Unusual activity here meaning burglary and theft since, as Coulson points out, Lorelei—who’s used to ruling over empires—will probably be hard to please.

Fitz gets the search started in the briefing room while Coulson asks for further details on Lorelei’s powers.

“How do they work, exactly?” he asks. “Are the men brainwashed, or—?”

“No,” Sif says. “Those who are ensnared by Lorelei remain the same in all respects except one: she becomes the embodiment of their desires. They will want nothing and no one more than she.”

That sounds like Grant’s worst nightmare, to be honest. He makes a mental note to stay as far away from Lorelei as possible.

“Not even their soulmates?” Coulson asks.

Sif tilts her head, considering. “For those who have found their second halves, Lorelei’s enchantment is…different, though no less effective. Lorelei uses her sorcery to manipulate the bond between souls.”

Fitz looks fascinated at the idea, but Grant and Coulson exchange troubled looks.

The soulbond isn’t something Grant thinks about often. It’s not something he _has_ to think about. It’s a part of him, ever present, like his instincts or his training or another sense. It’s just _there_ , warmth and strength and completion, binding him inexorably to Jemma. The idea of anything being able to change it is…wrong. That’s the only word for it. Wrong.

“Manipulate how, exactly?” he asks.

“There is a natural instinct in men to protect those to whom they are bound, no matter how capable their other halves are of protecting themselves,” Sif says. She looks a little annoyed, and Grant has a feeling that she’s speaking from experience. “Lorelei can…harness that instinct, and apply it to herself. The men under her enchantment believe that the only way to protect their…soulmates, as you call them, is to protect Lorelei. She convinces them that only through serving her can they bring their soulmates joy.”

“Right,” Coulson says uneasily. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

“I have the results from the search, sir,” Fitz says.

“Great,” Coulson says. “We’ll look through them. Ward, May, get ready to move.”

“Once you’re ready, meet me in the lab,” Fitz adds. “I’ve got something for you.”

Grant nods in acknowledgement, then heads to his bunk to change into his tac gear. And to grab another weapon or seven. He’s already had one bad experience with Asgardian magic, and the after effects of the berserker staff are still lingering, all these months later. He doesn’t intend to be caught off guard again.

He’s pretty sure his tac vest is still in the cargo bay, where he left it after the Guest House op nearly two weeks ago, but he changes into the rest of his gear. The plane takes off as he’s kicking off his shoes, but it’s a very short flight—it lands before he has his cargo pants buttoned. Once he’s fully dressed, he steps out of his bunk to find Coulson leaving the briefing room.

“We’ve got a location,” Coulson says. “Rosie’s Desert Oasis, a biker bar. I’ve called in a SHIELD convoy; they’ll meet us there in ten.”

“Right,” Grant says. “I’ll go see what Fitz wants.”

“I’ll be down in a sec,” Coulson nods. “Fill May in if you see her.”

“Yes, sir.”

He runs into May on the catwalk, and fills her in on what very little he knows as they go down the stairs and enter the lab.

What Fitz has for them is immediately obvious: an array of weapons is displayed on the holotable. Some of them are the standard pistols, some are pistol carbines, some are assault rifles, and some are actually shotguns. _All_ of them are night-night guns.

“We’re not calling them that anymore,” Fitz informs him.

“’Bout time,” he says, picking up a pistol and loading the accompanying magazine.

“They’re called ICERs,” Fitz says, clearly delighted by his own genius. “Incapacitating Cartridge Emitting—”

“They’re great,” Grant interrupts, not particularly caring about the technical details. He tests the one he’s holding and makes a very nice discovery. “ _And_ you lost the extra ounce.” He claps Fitz on the shoulder.

“And I tripled the stopping power,” Fitz says, slapping his back. “But I did realize after our run-ins with Mike and Centipede—”

“Whoa,” May says, gently redirecting the barrel of the ICER he’s holding away from herself.

“Sorry,” Fitz says. “Um, that we needed something stronger.”

He hands it to Grant, who weighs it in his hands, considering.

“Better,” Fitz adds.

May, surprisingly, grabs one of the ICERs as well. Then again, as she says, it’s sometimes hard to tell friend from foe when you’re up against people who are being controlled. Maybe it’s not so surprising that she’d be sympathetic to that.

Also, the ICERs _are_ pretty cool.

Coulson helps himself to a few ICERs as well, while Sif refuses. Apparently, she’s happy with her sword.

“I’ve filled Simmons in,” Fitz tells Grant as Sif, May, and Coulson head for the SUV. “She says to be careful, and to make sure you avoid getting any sand in your wound.”

“Of course she does,” Grant says, amused. He glances over his shoulder; the cargo ramp is lowering, and the others are already in the SUV. It’s time to go. “We’ll be back soon.”

“Good luck,” Fitz says.

“We’ll be fine,” Grant promises. “Back before you know it.”

\---

Sif expresses disbelief at the sight of Rosie’s Desert Oasis, which is far from a palace. Grant, however, notes the numerous motorcycles and trucks present—not to mention the trailer—and can guess the appeal: manpower.

There are state troopers waiting for them. SHIELD would have put out the order for them to hang back, maintain the perimeter, and wait for the team, but apparently they didn’t obey, because when Coulson asks if they’ve seen Lorelei, their answer is very telling.

“Yes we have,” one of the troopers says. He brings up his shotgun and cocks it. “And she’s beautiful.”

They all dive for cover as the troopers open fire. Well, except for Sif, who stands her ground, using only her tiny shield as defense.

Grant notes more state troopers approaching from around the side of the bar and fires on them.

“They’re on us from both sides,” he informs Coulson, who’s focusing on the troopers out front. “Be hard to get off a clean shot.”

Coulson calls out to Sif, asking for some cover, and she more than provides. She takes two steps over to the trailer parked nearby, plants a foot on the bumper, and shoves it—sending it skidding out twenty feet in front of them and effectively blocking the state troopers.

Grant’s not a fan of Asgardians in general, but he has to admit: Lady Sif is pretty badass.

“A very literal interpretation,” Coulson comments, standing. He thanks Sif, then shoots the trooper coming around the side of the trailer.

With his attention no longer needing to be split between two fields of fire, Grant easily takes out the two troopers around the side of the bar. Takes out here meaning knocks out, of course, since he’s using the ICER. It’s a good weapon—better than the night-night gun, and not just because the name is less ridiculous—and he makes a mental note to congratulate Fitz on it when they get back.

“All clear,” he says.

Coulson tells the men to hang back so that Sif can handle Lorelei, then orders Grant to go around the back while the rest of the convoy surrounds the building.

Grant circles around the back, ignoring the shouting behind him as the other agents arrange a perimeter around the building. Well, not ignoring, precisely—he absorbs it, notes where the agents are ordered, and mentally calculates the weak spots in their defense—but it’s all automatic, just his training kicking in, and it doesn’t take much of his concentration.

He can hear the sounds of a fight—shouting, thudding, breaking glass—from inside the bar, but the outside is quiet. At least it is until he reaches the back door, at which point a biker comes at him with a chain.

To his great embarrassment, he’s distracted enough by the sounds of the fight inside that he doesn’t see the guy coming in time, and the ICER is ripped from his hands. Silently swearing to leave that part out of his post-mission report, he takes a step back.

“Look,” he says. “I’m sure you’re, uh, a _reasonable_ guy.” He dodges the biker’s wild swing and punches him in the nose, snapping his head back. He takes the opportunity to check the guy’s name tag. “Rooster.”

Using his name, engaging on a personal level, is a tactic for forming a connection with a hostile. It’s Dealing with Brainwashed Masses 101, and Grant’s had plenty of experience with that. He knows he should keep going, because it’s worth a shot even if it’s probably useless, but…

“Rooster?” he can’t help but ask. “Really?”

Rooster (what a ridiculous name) takes another wild swing at him, which Grant dodges. He strikes back, much more effectively, and Rooster stumbles away, grabbing the chain again. This time, though, Grant’s ready for it, and when Rooster swings it at him, he grabs it and uses it to yank him forward, catching him with a hard punch to the nose.

This one does the trick, and Rooster collapses, unconscious.

That was easy. Grant crouches to pick up the ICER, but he’s barely touched it when he hears movement behind him. He snatches it up and turns, planting one knee on the ground for balance and bringing up the ICER, ready to shoot.

Shit. There’s no question that the woman he’s currently aiming at is Lorelei. He gets carefully to his feet, and she follows suit.

“You’re a fine warrior,” she says.

“I am,” he agrees, because it’s true. “Put your hands behind your back and get on your knees.”

She smiles and steps closer. “Men kneel before _me_. I do not bow to them.”

One of the agents maintaining the perimeter comes into view, and Grant calls out to him.

“Gonna need some back-up over here.”

The man nods and runs off. Lorelei tilts her head at him.

“You are bonded,” she observes. “Soul to soul.”

He nods, wary.

“I’m sure she’s beautiful,” Lorelei says. Her voice is soft and compelling, but he’s not buying it.

“Yes,” he says flatly. “She is.”

“Beautiful,” she repeats. “But fragile.”

What?

“You have a warrior’s spirit,” she says, stepping closer. “I can sense it in you. You know how dangerous Midgard can be, do you not? How many _threats_ it offers. Your soulmate is beautiful, I am sure, but she is weak. Vulnerable. I can make her strong.” She lays a hand on his arm. “I can bring her one of the golden apples of Iðunn. One bite and you need never fear her death. She will be young and beautiful and _strong_ —forever.”

Yes. Yes, of course. It’s perfect. He’s heard of the apples—heard Skye bring them up, teasing Jemma and challenging her to find a scientific explanation for apples that grant immortality. If Jemma eats one of the apples, he won’t need to worry about her any longer. She can be as brave and reckless and self-sacrificial as she likes, with no permanent consequences.

He won’t lose her. Ever.

“Yes,” Lorelei says. “That is the way, is it not? You will have forever with her, as well you should. All you have to do is protect me and serve me, and I will grant your soulmate this boon.”

Of course. Why didn’t he see it before? Why has he been wasting his time trying to capture her when the _obvious_ thing to do is serve her? He can protect Jemma by serving Lorelei, so why on earth would he do anything else?

He holsters the ICER and pulls out his comm, tossing it to the ground.

“What are your orders?” he asks.

Lorelei smiles and looks at the motorcycle waiting nearby.

“Know you how to harness this beast?” she asks.

“Of course,” he says.

He crouches down next to Rooster and pats him down until he finds his keys, then climbs on to the motorcycle and starts it up. Lorelei hesitates only briefly before climbing on behind him.

“This is uncomfortable,” she says. “Remove your armor.”

He obediently unclips his vest and drops it to the ground. Lorelei slides closer.

“Much better,” she praises. “Now. Take me somewhere grand, deserving of a ruler—a queen.”

A queen deserves a palace, and those are in short supply in this country. Luckily, they’re not far from Las Vegas—which also happens to be the location of his nearest drop box.

“I know just the place,” he says.

He makes good use of the weaknesses in the perimeter he noted earlier, and they get away from the bar without coming across a single agent. Sloppy, but what else can one expect? If their back-up was specialists instead of field agents, they might have been in trouble. Luckily, they’re only field agents, and it’s easy enough to slip past their notice.

He’s never driven in this part of the country before, but Vegas isn’t a hard place to find. All he has to do is get back to the highway and follow the signs. His storage locker is at the Greyhound station fifteen minutes away from Caesars Palace, and as he pulls to a stop at a light, he looks over his shoulder at Lorelei.

“We need to make a quick stop first,” he says.

“For what?” she asks. There’s a warning in her tone, but he thinks she’ll be pleased when she sees what he’s got waiting.

“Supplies,” he says. “I have a storage locker not far from our destination. It’s got cash, weapons, and the documentation we’ll need to pass under the radar.”

“Very well,” Lorelei agrees. “A stop we shall make, then.”

Lorelei is _very_ unimpressed by the Greyhound station, but she follows him in anyway. He leads her straight to the lockers and asks, politely, for her to stand in a spot that will block his hands from view of the security desk.

He doesn’t have the key to this locker on him—currently, it’s in a box in his bunk on the Bus—but the lock is simple, easy enough to pick. Of course, it’s booby trapped, so anyone else who tried would suffer some severe consequences, but as he’s the one who trapped it in the first place, it’s no trouble for him to disarm.

He pulls the duffle out of the locker, then relocks it and rearms the trap, just to be safe. No need to advertise that he’s cleared it out, after all, even if no one actually knows this drop exists. Lorelei is looking impatient so, with a glance at the security guard, he partially unzips the bag, letting her glimpse the money inside.

Her eyes go wide. “A worthwhile stop, indeed. Well done.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Now, let’s get you to your palace.”

She smiles as she follows him back out to the parking lot. Lorelei starts to head for the bike, but he stops her.

“We’re going to take one of these,” he says, indicating the cars in long-term parking. “Vehicles can be traced, and switching to a new one can help throw off anyone who’s on our trail.”

“If we must,” she agrees, looking at the cars with disgust. “Are we very far from our destination?”

“Not far at all,” he says. He leads her to the long-term parking, stopping next to a nondescript sedan. “This’ll do.”

Lorelei watches with interest as he jimmies the lock on the door and hotwires the car.

“You have many skills,” she comments, pleased.

“I do,” he agrees. He leans over and unlocks the passenger side door. “You ready?”

She walks around the car and gets in, making a slight face as she closes the door.

“It won’t be long,” he promises, seeing her distaste.

“You know,” she muses as he pulls out of the parking lot. “You have not introduced yourself to me.”

“Right,” he says. “Apologies. Grant Ward.”

“Ward,” she echoes. “It’s a strong name.”

“If you say so.”

It’s a short drive to Caesars Palace, and Grant parks in the parking lot of the restaurant next door. Valet parking’s out of the question, obviously—hard to stay under the radar when you turn a hotwired car over to the valet.

Lorelei takes in the hotel with wide eyes as they walk up to and into it. She’s obviously satisfied by it, giving him a pleased look at the sight of the statue in the lobby.

Vegas is one of the few places in this country where paying from a duffle full of cash _won’t_ get you suspicious looks. The woman at the desk in the lobby assumes he’s won big at a casino, and he goes along with the lie, slipping into a ‘gaping tourist’ persona. He makes quick work of renting them a nice room, accepts the key from the receptionist, and returns to Lorelei, who’s still examining the lobby’s décor.

“I’m fortunate to have found you,” she says as they cut through the casino. He takes care to keep them in the various security cameras’ blind spots, where they exist, and hidden in the crowd where they don’t. “You’re quite…resourceful.”

“Just well trained,” he corrects.

She chuckles. “No. You are _worlds_ apart,” she stops walking and turns to face him. “From those men in the desert.”

He appreciates the praise. It warms him from inside, the way few things have ever managed. Still, he’s a little annoyed by the way she’s looking up at him, all smiles and sincere eyes. He’s a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot, and he tells her so.

“I know you value me no more than those bikers back there,” he says. “The truth is, I don’t care.”

“Because you feel nothing for me,” she guesses. “I am means to the end you desire, and nothing more.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he says. He doesn’t want to offend her. “There aren’t many people I feel much of anything for.”

“Except your bonded,” she concludes.

“Don’t worry,” he says. He can’t read her tone, and that concerns him. “I don’t need to feel for you to do my job. I would die for you. Any man would.”

“But I don’t want them,” she says. She moves closer. “I want you. You’re _stronger_. A real man, with the rage of a berserker inside.”

He’s a little discomfited that she knows that. He has the rage under control—mostly—but the idea that she can see it or sense it or _whatever_ , despite the fact that it’s not active at the moment, is…worrying.

She slides her hand across his shoulder and up his neck, cupping his jaw in her hand.

“You will present me with an army,” she says. He nods. “And I will give you a gift in return.”

“An apple,” he says. “That will make Jemma immortal.”

“But that is a gift for your second half, not for _you_ ,” she points out. She leans even closer to him. “Is there nothing _you_ desire?”

“Making Jemma immortal is all the gift I need,” he says honestly. Well, he’d also like to be rid of the berserker rage, but she obviously sees it as an asset, so there’s no point in asking.

Lorelei lets go of him with a sigh. “She must be quite something, this love of yours.”

“She is,” he agrees.

“I am weary,” she says. She starts walking again, and he falls into step beside her.

“Our room isn’t far,” he assures her.

“This room,” Lorelei says, turning her head to watch a large group of tourists pass. “It will have a bed?”

“Of course.”

“It has been _centuries_ since I have taken a lover,” she says. She flicks a glance at him. “But you do not desire me, do you?”

“No,” he agrees. “I don’t.”

“So many men,” she muses, returning her attention to the crowds surrounding them. “I have not the energy to test them one by one until I find one who is not bonded.”

He can’t help her with the sex thing, but he can help her there.

“You see the bars on their wrists?” he asks, indicating a woman standing nearby, whose timer is on full display. “If it’s green, they’ve met their soulmate. If it’s blue or grey, they haven’t. If it’s red, it means their soulmate is dead, whether they’ve met or not.”

Lorelei’s eyes go wide as she listens. “This is so for all of them?”

“Everyone who has a timer,” he says.

“You _were_ a good choice,” she says. “I am well pleased.”

“Thank you,” he says, warmed by her approval.

It doesn’t take Lorelei long to find a man with a blue timer who pleases her. He readily agrees to follow them up to their room, seemingly unconcerned by Grant’s presence. Which is fair enough; he hangs back, playing bodyguard to Lorelei and her conquest, the whole way to the room. Once they reach it, he unlocks the door, drops the duffle in the entryway, and then leaves to wait in the hall.

They’re on the tenth floor; any threats will be coming from out here, not the windows, so it’s safe to leave Lorelei to her business and guard the room from outside. He does keep part of his attention on the sounds coming from the room, of course—he doesn’t _think_ Lorelei’s conquest is going to hurt her, but he won’t take it for granted.

He’ll stay ready to protect her, if she needs it.

\---

It’s nearly four hours later that Lorelei’s choice of lover stumbles out of the room, half of his clothes missing and his expression dazed.

“She’s _amazing_ ,” he sighs, grinning to himself. Then it fades. “But she sent me away. Why would she send me away?”

“You can come back tomorrow afternoon,” Grant promises, mostly to get the guy to leave. They’ll be long gone by then, so there’s no harm in the promise.

“Right,” the man says. “Right. I’ll go wait.”

He sets off down the hall, expression determined, and Grant watches until he gets on the elevator. Then he turns and enters the room, the door of which has been left open. He closes and locks it behind him, then picks up the duffle bag and follows the trail of clothes on the ground to the bedroom.

Lorelei is standing at the window, wrapped in a sheet.

“When I first arrived here,” she says as he enters the room. “I thought Earth left…much to be desired. But from here it’s…quite beautiful.”

He can tell by her tone that she wants company, so he drops the duffle on the bed and joins her by the window.

“I’ve spent the last _six hundred years_ locked away in a dark, cold cell,” she says. “My throat shackled. My voice silenced. Torture.”

“You never have to go back there,” he swears. He resolves to do anything he can to prevent it, and he can do a lot. He’ll die defending Lorelei’s freedom. It’s a worthy cause.

“But Sif is on the hunt,” she protests. “And she will not rest, she will not stop. I will not know peace.”

“So we take her out of the equation,” he says. It’s what he’s trained to do—what he’s best at. “Eliminate the threat.”

“The graves of Asgard’s enemies are _littered_ with men who underestimated Sif,” she says. “Do not make the same mistake. You do not know her.”

“No,” he agrees. “I don’t.” He walks away from the window, to the bed, and unzips the duffle. The semi-automatic is right where he left it, on top of the cash, and he picks it up. “But, the people she’s working with now? I know them.”

“They are threats, as well?” Lorelei asks.

“Yeah,” he says, weighing the gun in his hand. It’s not his usual, or his preferred, brand, but it will do. “Some of them.”

“Not all?”

“Jemma’s not,” he says. Not to him. Not ever. “Skye’s wounded at the moment, but I’ve been training her for months—best not to underestimate her. Fitz could be an asset, if you can convince him to see things our way.”

“That will not be a problem,” she says.

“Coulson could be a threat, but he’s not my main concern,” he tells her. “May is. She’s one of SHIELD’s best.”

“SHIELD,” Lorelei says. “This is the name of the army that trained you?”

Not precisely an army, but close enough. He nods.

“You will kill this May,” she orders. “Eliminate the threat, as you say.”

“Of course,” he says. “And then we can get your army.”

“How?” she asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You have something in mind already, do you not?”

“I do,” he agrees. “All we have to do is get to the Bus and take it to the Triskelion—that’s SHIELD’s main base. You convince Fury, the Director of SHIELD, to see things our way, and you’ll have thousands of well-trained men and women at your command.”

She gives him another smile. “Again, you prove your worth. How are we to get to this…Bus?”

“First, you should get some sleep,” he says. “In the morning, we’ll let ourselves get caught on camera. That will bring Coulson, May, and Sif running, leaving the Bus undefended. By the time they realize this is a dead end and return to the Bus, it’ll be under our control.”

“Camera?” Lorelei asks.

“Trust me,” he says. If he gets started explaining modern technology, they’ll be here all week. “It’ll work.”

“Of course it will,” she agrees. “I shall sleep now, then.”

He nods. “I’ll be right outside. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will,” she says.

He makes himself comfortable on the couch in the living room. He can’t sleep, not when there’s the possibility that Lorelei might need something, but there’s no harm in sitting down for a while.

\---

In the morning, Grant deliberately leads Lorelei past three cameras in the casino. If Skye’s on their trail—and he’s sure she is—that will be enough to get the team here soon.

Once that’s taken care of, he makes sure to stick to the blind spots as they continue out of the casino, out of the hotel, and to the parking lot of the restaurant next door—the one on the other side of the building, not the one they left the sedan in last night.

He jacks another car—this one a mid-range pick-up truck—and heads out of the city towards the airfield they were parked at yesterday. The bar Lorelei was using as a base before is close enough to the city that Grant thinks Coulson and May will choose to drive, rather than dealing with the mess that comes with moving the Bus.

Sure enough, the Bus is right where he last saw it. The SUV is gone, and there are no other SHIELD vehicles in sight. They ditch the truck in the airfield’s parking lot, then cross the tarmac on foot.

“This is a bus?” Lorelei asks, studying it with wide eyes as they approach. “Truly, it is an impressive creation.”

“Actually, this is an airplane,” he corrects. “We call it the Bus. It’s…kind of a joke.”

She gives him a blank look.

“Not important,” he decides. He pauses at the bottom of the cargo ramp. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she breathes. “I tire of waiting for my army.”

He glances up the ramp. The only person in sight is Fitz, who’s working in the lab with his back to the cargo bay. He hesitates. He hates to leave Lorelei alone, but…

She’s a sorceress. She’ll be fine.

“If any of them see me, they’ll know right away what’s going on, and they might sound the alarm before I can stop them,” he tells her quietly. “But an unfamiliar face will give them pause. We need to be ready to leave as soon as the others return. Can I leave Fitz to you while I get the Bus ready to go? Then you can send him to deal with Jemma and Skye.”

Since Jemma’s not in the lab, she’s probably in the med-pod. It will easy enough to lock them in, especially since they’ll have no reason to suspect Fitz.

“Of course,” she says. “It will be no hardship.”

He motions for her to lead the way up the ramp, which she does with a smile. Then, they part ways in the cargo bay: Lorelei goes into the lab, while he heads upstairs. He settles himself in the co-pilot’s seat and starts running the pre-flight checks, keeping one eye on the airfield for Coulson, May, and Sif’s return.

It’s not long before Lorelei joins him, guided cheerfully by Fitz.

“Simmons and Skye are locked in the med-pod,” Fitz reports. “They didn’t notice a thing.”

“Good work,” Grant says, as Lorelei sits in the pilot’s seat.

“But what are we going to do about Sif?” Fitz asks. “You have a plan, don’t you, Ward?”

“I do,” he agrees. “You’re going to need to figure out some way to lure her into the Cage, though.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” Fitz says. “Then what?”

“Then you close and lock the door,” he says. “And I open the airlock.”

“The airlock?” Lorelei asks.

“It’ll suck her right out of the plane,” he tells her. “Even an Asgardian can’t survive a fall from forty thousand feet.”

She smiles. “No, we cannot.”

“Once we get rid of her, we can focus on May,” he says. “She’s our other main threat.”

“Then we will proceed to the base you mentioned,” she concludes. “And I shall finally get my army.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees.

Movement on the tarmac catches his attention, and he watches as the Bus’ SUV drives up.

“You’re on, Fitz,” he says. “Get Sif into the Cage as quickly as possible.”

“Not a problem,” Fitz insists. “Excuse me.”

He walks out, and Grant brings up the last of the controls. Then he waits.

“Your bonded,” Lorelei says suddenly. “She will be displeased by our actions?”

He glances at her. “What makes you say that?”

“You have given no thought to persuading her to join us,” she points out. “Instead, you asked that the scholar imprison her, without even speaking to her first.”

“I did,” he agrees. “And yeah, she won’t be happy.”

“You serve me on her behalf,” she says. “That I might reward her with immortality. And she will not be grateful?”

“No, she won’t,” he says. He knows it’s the truth, knows that Jemma could never approve of a plan that ends with Sif and May dead. And even more will die at the Triskelion, he’s sure. Jemma will be very unhappy about all of this. In fact, she may never speak to him again.

That’s all right.

“Her safety is what’s most important,” he says. “It’s my job to protect Jemma, just like I protect you. The only difference is, half the time I have to protect Jemma from herself.”

“Do you?” Lorelei asks.

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Remind me to tell you about the time she jumped out of the Bus later. Anyway, the point is—Jemma’s in just as much danger from her own actions as she is from external threats, and I can’t always be there to protect her from them. Once you give her that apple, I won’t have to. She can be as angry as she likes at me. She won’t be in danger anymore, and that’s what’s important.”

Lorelei gives him a very thoughtful look, but before she can speak, a loud thudding noise begins to echo through the plane. Sif, trying to escape the Cage. It’s the signal he’s been waiting for.

“That’s our cue,” he says. “Brace yourself. This can be kind of disorienting, the first time.”

She nods, and he begins the takeoff process.

Lorelei watches in wide-eyed wonder for a few minutes, but eventually shakes it off.

“When will you release Sif into the air?” she asks.

“Once we reach cruising altitude,” he says. “I want to be as high up as possible, just in case.”

She nods. “A wise decision. And will you be able to reach this altitude before the other woman, the warrior you have deemed a threat, comes to stop you?”

“We’ll have to hope so,” he says. He’s got plenty of practice at close-quarter fighting, but the cockpit is May’s domain. She’ll have the advantage here.

“I shall delay her,” Lorelei decides. She stands. “Once you have released Sif, you will come eliminate the threat of the other warrior.”

“Understood,” he agrees. As she leaves the cockpit, he returns his focus to the flight controls.

It makes him uneasy to let Lorelei go face down May, but…she’s Asgardian. She’ll be fine.

Once he gets the Bus leveled out at forty thousand feet, he turns his attention to the _other_ controls in the cockpit—the ones that gives him access to all of the Bus’ internal systems. It only takes a few seconds to access the Cage and open the airlock.

He pulls up the security feed and watches as Sif struggles. She manages to stay in the Cage for a while—Asgardian advantage—but she can’t win against physics, and eventually, she gets sucked out of the airlock.

One down, one to go.

He shuts the airlock, puts the Bus on auto-pilot, and stands and leaves the cockpit. His orders are to eliminate May, so that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

He enters the cabin area and finds May just getting to her feet. It’s a slow movement, with obvious pain behind it, and Grant gives Lorelei an impressed nod. She dented the Cavalry, and that’s not nothing.

“I will retrieve Sif’s sword,” she says. “It will look better in my hand.”

“Ward,” May says to him. “You don’t wanna do this.”

“This was the plan,” he tells her. “Cross off Sif, take the plane, eliminate anyone in our way.” He lifts his gun and points it at her. “Get _out_ of her way.”

“That’s her plan,” May says. “Not yours. Fight it. I _know_ you, you’re a fighter.”

“What would he gain by fighting me?” Lorelei asks. “Should he turn against me, he would lose much. More, I think, than he is willing to risk.”

May flicks a dismissive glare at her, then returns her eyes to Grant. Lorelei runs her hand along his shoulder and walks away, past May and toward the Cage. He keeps a careful eye on May, but she makes no move towards Lorelei.

“What about Simmons, Ward?” she asks instead. “You think she’s going to forgive you for attacking the team?”

“I’m doing this for her,” he says. “It’s the only way to protect her.”

“I understand—” she starts.

“You don’t,” he interrupts. “Your soulmate is a schoolteacher. Mine is a SHIELD agent. You’ve never had to worry about your soulmate jumping on a _grenade_ —but I have. I need to protect Jemma, and this is the best way.”

May blinks a little at the mention of the grenade—apparently he wasn’t the only one left out of the loop on that—and then hits him with one of her ‘you’re a dumbass’ looks.

“And what happens if she gets in your way?” she asks. “You gonna cross her off, too?”

Of course not. That’s ridiculous.

“She won’t get in our way,” he says.

“Really?” she asks. “Simmons threw herself out of the plane. And on a grenade, apparently. You think she’s not going to throw herself between you and your next target?”

He pauses, but shakes it off. She’s just trying to confuse him, that’s all—trying to distract him, to gain the advantage. He’s wasting time; he needs to cross her off and keep moving. He readjusts his grip on his gun and aims it straight at her forehead.

“Ward!” Fitz hollers. “I think we have a big problem!”

A problem? A threat to Lorelei? He only glances away from May for a moment, but it’s all she needs. She grabs the gun right out of his hand and punches him, _hard_ , in the stomach.

So. A fight it is, then.

He’s fought May before, of course, but that was sparring. They were both holding back, neither wanting to cause real damage. May always had the advantage there, but this time, it’s his—because it’s his job to cross her off, while she’s hesitating because he’s a teammate.

For some reason, it’s difficult to focus on the fight. His movements are automatic, ingrained after a decade of training, but it’s all instinct and reflex, with no planning. His aim is to get his hands on the gun and shoot May or, failing that, kill her with his bare hands. He wants to cross off the Cavalry, which means he needs a plan, but every time he tries to form one, his mind goes to Lorelei, to worrying about her.

She should be back now. Fitz was yelling about a problem. What if she’s in danger? What if there’s someone else on the Bus, someone he didn’t plan for?

He can’t devote all of his attention to May, no matter how hard he tries, and that’s dangerous.

Eventually, though, he gets an opening to go for the gun again. It’s on the ground a few feet away, and he dives for it, rolling to his knees to aim it at May. She responds by tackling him through the glass screen in the middle of the lounge.

They land on the coffee table, breaking it, but he still has his grip on the gun, and as May falls beside him, he aims it directly at her temple.

“Sorry about this,” he says, and pulls the trigger.

_Fuck_.

His mind returns to him a second too late, but luckily, nothing actually happened when he pulled the trigger. May holds up the magazine (how did he not notice that was missing? Oh, right, _mind control_ ), then rolls to her feet, ready to resume the fight.

“Whoa,” he says, standing. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait.” He drops the gun. “Sorry. It’s me, okay. I’m back.”

He hears footsteps behind him, but doesn’t take his eyes away from May. She hasn’t relaxed at all—not surprising, as he just lost the advantage and could very easily be faking his return to sense—and she’s a very real threat.

“He speaks the truth,” Sif (Sif? What the hell?) says behind him. He glances over his shoulder at her. She’s got Lorelei handcuffed and muzzled, and it’s a very satisfying sight. He’s smiling when he turns back to look at May.

“Good to know,” she says flatly, then turns away. “I’m going to get us on the ground.”

She’s a little angry, obviously, and he decides to let her be. The last thing he wants is to piss her off even more.

Coulson appears from the hallway that leads to the catwalk, and he takes in the situation with a glance.

“Ward?” he asks. “You back with us?”

“Yes, sir,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Coulson dismisses. He looks around the lounge with a little sigh, but doesn’t comment on the damage. “Where’s May?”

“Cockpit,” he says. “Getting us out of the air.”

Coulson nods. “Good.” He looks Grant over briefly. “Simmons is in the lab. You should get her to take a look at you.”

Correction: _that_ is the last thing he wants to do. He doesn’t know that he can face her right now.

But Coulson raises an expectant eyebrow at him, so he nods and heads downstairs. At least it gets him away from Sif and Lorelei. Between the berserker staff and what’s just happened, it’s safe to say that Asgardians are his absolute _least_ favorite aliens. Ever.

Jemma is indeed in the lab, fussing over Fitz. He’s got what looks like the beginnings of a pretty horrible shiner going, and he’s bearing her fussing with unusual patience. Looks like things didn’t go too smoothly down here, either.

Fitz spots him first, and his eyes go wide.

“I’m gonna—you know, I should,” he stammers for a moment. Then he brightens. “I should check on Skye! Yep, that’s what I should do. So I’m going to.”

He slips past Jemma and heads back into the storage area at a fast clip. That’s….probably not a good sign.

Jemma takes a deep breath and turns around. Her eyes widen as soon as she lays eyes on him, whatever she was feeling before instantly replaced with worry.

“Grant,” she says. “You look awful. Are you all right?”

He just led a hostile alien in a takeover of their plane, with the intention of helping her take over their entire organization, encouraged said alien to use her mind control powers on Jemma’s best friend, and did his level best to cross off a member of their team. And the first thing she asks him is if he’s all right.

She’s just…ridiculous.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you okay? Did…anyone hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “All of the action was well away from me. However, I do _not_ believe you can say the same. Come here, let me take a look at you.”

“That’s not—”

“Come here,” she repeats firmly. “And let me take a look at you.”

He smiles, just a little, at her insistence, and crosses the lab to stand in front of her.

“On the table,” she directs, stepping aside. “And take off your shirt.”

He wants to make a joke, but he doesn’t have it in him right now. So he just does as she says. Removing his shirt is painful; he’s pretty sure the durable fabric protected him from the broken glass, but he did land pretty hard on the coffee table—his back is going to be a mess of bruises tomorrow, for sure.

Jemma makes a hurt little noise, staring at the quickly forming bruising on his torso.

“Grant,” she says quietly. “What happened?”

“I threw down with May,” he says, flexing his shoulders carefully. Yeah, he’s going to be in a world of pain tomorrow. “I don’t recommend it. It’s not a fun time.”

“No, I imagine not,” she agrees. She takes another glance at his torso, then walks away, crossing the lab to the cabinets on the far wall. She returns a moment later with a scanner. “All right. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

She keeps things entirely professional as she looks him over. Not that she’s ever _unprofessional_ , but usually his post-mission check-ups are accompanied by some fussing over his various injuries, and the occasional bit of scolding for not taking his well-being seriously enough.

Not so this time. She barely speaks at all, except to ask him to move in a certain way or checking whether something hurts.

He never thought he would miss her fussing, but the longer the check-up goes without it, the more his chest tightens—in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the fight against May.

Eventually she steps back, pronouncing him ‘mostly bruised.’

“You should ice—well, everything,” she advises. “And I’ll take this opportunity to remind you that I have a wide supply of pain medication, both over-the-counter and narcotic. You may wish to make use of it.”

“I’ll take some Tylenol,” he promises. “Later.”

He starts to slide off the table, but Jemma holds up a hand.

“Not so fast,” she says. “There’s still the matter of your _other_ check-up.”

“What?” He has no idea what she’s talking about.

“You’ve had prolonged contact with an alien,” she says, as if he needs the reminder. “You need to be scanned for, um, infection. It’s standard procedure. _Recent_ standard procedure.”

He winces at the reference to the Chitauri virus. “Right. Okay. What do I need to do?”

“Just sit still, please,” she requests. She grabs a different scanner off the table behind her and holds it up. A red light passes over Grant a few times, and Jemma nods. “Good.”

“I’m clean?” he asks.

“You are,” she says. She sets the scanner aside, then pauses. “Although, there is…”

“What?” he asks. “Don’t tell me you actually have _more_ scans to run.”

“Well, that depends,” she says. She looks down at the first aid kit, fussing with the arrangement of bandages. Not a good sign.

“On?”

“Was the contact, um,” she hesitates. Her eyes flick away, then return to his, determinedly. “Was the contact sexual in nature?”

“No,” he says firmly. Then he winces, because he didn’t quite manage to keep the hurt out of his voice. “How could you think I would—?”

“It wouldn’t be your fault,” she rushes to assure him. “If you had. It wouldn’t be—she was controlling you, so it wouldn’t—it would be…”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says when she falters. “Because no, nothing happened.”

She blows out a slow breath. “Good. That’s…that’s good.”

She looks much lighter now, like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders, and it makes him a little angry. He doesn’t have the right to be angry, he knows that—not after what he did today—but…he is anyway.

“That’s why you’ve been like that?” he asks, thinking of how distant she held herself during the check-up. “Because you thought I’d cheated on you?”

“ _No_ ,” she says, horrified. “Grant, that’s not—your fidelity was never in question. Even if you and she _had_ …that wouldn’t be _cheating_ , Grant. It would be…”

She breaks off, looking a little sick, and shakes her head.

“No, Grant,” she says. “I just—I thought you might like a little space, that you wouldn’t appreciate my hovering, after being…violated.”

“So…you’re not angry?” he checks. He’ll think about the rest of her sentence…later. Next week, maybe.

“Oh, I’m furious,” she says. “But not at you. Of course not.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well. Good.”

“So,” she says, closing the first aid kit. “You fought Agent May, did you? That was very unwise, Grant.”

“No kidding,” he agrees, rolling his shoulders again. “I’m gonna be feeling this for a while.”

“And I suppose my chances of convincing you to take anything _stronger_ than Tylenol…?”

“Slim to none,” he says. “Sorry.”

She sighs. “Well, having experienced my own difficulties with narcotic painkillers recently, I can’t say I don’t understand. Still….at least keep them in mind.”

“I will,” he promises. Then he looks around the lab. “So, you know what I spent the past two days doing. What about you? Jump on any grenades while I was gone?”

It’s really not funny that she did that, but at the moment he’s feeling too light to be angry. She’s not angry at him. It’s a relief.

“No,” she says, pinning him with what is probably supposed to be an annoyed look. It’s spoiled by the slightly sheepish smile. “However, I did attempt to hit Agent Coulson with a fire extinguisher.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “I’m sure he deserved it.”

Jemma laughs. “Well, he did take my very male soulmate as back-up to attempt to capture a sorceress capable of controlling men, so…”

“Yeah,” he muses. “We really didn’t think that one through, did we?”

“No,” she says. “You didn’t.”

He doesn’t want to dwell on that, though. And, since Jemma isn’t angry at him and he isn’t angry at her, there’s no reason for her to be standing so far away. He leans forward a little, ignoring the accompanying pain, and grabs her hand, tugging her closer.

“I missed you,” he says quietly.

It’s true. Not just while he was under Lorelei’s control, but while he was on the op in Muscat. He knows it was the right decision, to get some distance, but once he had his temper under control, he missed her terribly. And the timing was horrible—coming back from three days away only to immediately get put under mind control (fucking _mind control_ , Asgardians are the _worst_ ) and taken away from her.

“I missed you, too,” she says. She slides her hands up his arms to rest on his shoulders. “And, you know, it’s three missions in a row now that you’ve left without kissing me goodbye.”

“Wow,” he says, unable to hold back a smile. “That’s pretty inconsiderate of me, isn’t it?”

“It’s not a good habit to develop,” she agrees.

“Let me make it up to you,” he murmurs, slipping one arm around her waist and tugging her even closer.

“Well,” she says. “If you insist.”

The rule about PDA in the lab is broken. Thoroughly and with great enjoyment. Grant does not feel the slightest bit guilty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warnings:** off-screen rape of a nameless minor character, to which Ward is _technically_ a party, as he does nothing to stop it--but, of course, he's being controlled as well.
> 
> I spent literal weeks going back and forth on how to handle this chapter. Of course, as soon as I decided to rewrite the entire season, I knew that I would have to tackle this episode, and the problems therein, and I've been agonizing over it since "0-8-4." Soulmates having protection from Lorelei's powers seems a little like a cop-out, I admit, but in the end, I just couldn't write Ward being raped. It's a very serious, very horrible thing, which deserves more than a few lines and a brush off, and that's all I'd be able to give it, considering what kicks off in the next chapter.
> 
> So. That's that, then. I hope my deviation doesn't ruin anything for you, and that my explanation of Lorelei's powers makes sense.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	16. End of the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team goes up against the Clairvoyant, with the aim of taking him down for good. Grant knows that it's not that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks so much for all of the comments and kudos! They mean a lot.
> 
> Second, I'm sorry this took so long. This chapter was like pulling teeth, I swear. It doesn't help that, for all this is a super important episode, it's really not that interesting. I hope I've managed to make it at least a little better.
> 
> I think that's it. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant’s alarm goes off at 5:30, as usual. What’s not usual is the way Jemma rolls on top of him as soon as he turns it off.

“Noooo,” she moans, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. “It’s too early.”

He blinks down at her, surprised. She’s been getting up with him to keep him company during his morning training almost every single day for the past six months, and she’s never once complained about the early hour.

“It’s…the usual time,” he points out, confused.

“The usual time is too early,” she insists, tightening her hold on him. “You should skive. Just this once. More sleep instead.”

Her voice is muffled, since she’s speaking into his shoulder, and it takes him a moment to parse her last sentence. Then he laughs, because it suddenly clicks.

“You did come to bed pretty late last night,” he says. “Regretting it now?”

“I wouldn’t be,” she mutters. “If you would _stop talking_ and go back to sleep.”

He strokes his hand through her hair, amused. She’s actually _grumpy_. This is amazing.

“What were you even doing?” he asks.

He was already asleep when she came to bed; he woke when he heard the door open and went right back to sleep when he realized it was her, but he remembers glancing at the clock, and it was definitely after three. No wonder she’s grumpy, if she’s only working off two hours.

Jemma sighs heavily, like he’s the most annoying person on the planet, and he doesn’t bother to hold back his smile. She’s not looking at him anyway—in fact, he’d be surprised if she’s even opened her eyes.

“Skye’s blood,” she says eventually. “I was trying to—well, you don’t care. The point is, I don’t have the equipment I need to properly examine it here on the Bus. I’d like to send it out to some colleagues at the Sandbox or the Hub for a molecular breakdown, but Agent Coulson won’t agree to it.”

“He’s still insisting on keeping it in-house?” he asks, sympathetic.

It’s been a month now since Skye was shot, and Coulson isn’t budging on the GH-325, no matter how much Jemma tries to convince him. And while Jemma understands the value in secrecy—of course she does, she works for SHIELD—Coulson has yet to give her any reason that she feels justifies keeping the GH-325 secret. It has the potential to save a lot of lives, and she doesn’t think _because I said so_ is a good enough reason not to pursue that potential.

She sighs again and turns her head to look up at him. “Yes, he is. I’ve been _trying_ to make do with what we have in the lab, but I’ve been largely unsuccessful. Hence my late night, and hence my desire to _go back to sleep_.”

He laughs. He can’t help it. She’s gorgeous, as she always is first thing in the morning, hair rumpled by sleep and eyes half-lidded, but the expression on her face can only be described as _petulant_ , and that’s just…adorable. He’s never seen her like this before.

“You can go back to sleep,” he says. “I don’t mind going to training alone. But you’re gonna have to let go of me.”

“No,” she says flatly, turning her face back into his shoulder and resettling herself—she’s still on top of him. “Stay here, with me. In our nice warm bed.”

“Jemma—”

“Warm,” she says, slightly louder. “Soft. Quiet. Nice, peaceful bed, with a nice peaceful soulmate. Isn’t that better than training?”

“Oh, definitely,” he agrees, amused. “But I still need to go.”

“One morning can’t _possibly_ hurt,” she argues.

“Skye’s finally ready to start training again,” he says. “She needs—”

“She should wait another day,” Jemma interrupts. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not that kind of doctor,” he reminds her.

“Shhh,” she says. “Sleeping.”

Oh, what the hell. She’s right, one morning won’t hurt. And, frankly, he’d have to be completely crazy to pick three hours working in the cargo bay over an extra three hours with Jemma.

“Fine,” he says. “You win. Just let me text Skye.”

“Yay,” she sighs. “I win.” Her voice is a little slurred; she’s already falling back to sleep.

After shooting off a quick text, he’s happy to join her.

\---

Five hours later, they enter the lab after a late breakfast to be met with a disbelieving glare from Skye.

“Seriously?” she demands. “What time do you call this?”

Grant checks his watch. “Ten-thirty.”

“Ha ha,” she says. “Seriously, Ward, what gives? I thought we were supposed to start training again today!”

“Sorry, Skye,” he says, patting her on the shoulder. “But in a contest between you and Jemma…”

She gives him a weird look, then turns to frown at Jemma.

“Simmons,” she says. “Did you _seduce_ my SO this morning?”

“I wouldn’t say I _seduced_ him, precisely,” Jemma denies. “Sadly, there was no sex at all. I did, however, lead him astray.”

Skye looks a little grossed out. “Do I _want_ to know what that means?”

“It means I talked him into having a lie-in,” Jemma says, giving her a weird look of her own. “What did you think it meant?”

“Really?” Skye asks, dodging the question. “Mr. Push-ups-if-you’re-late slept in just ‘cause his soulmate asked him to?”

“Yep,” he agrees easily, leaning back against the table. “Like I said—no contest.”

She’s pouting. There’s really no other word for it.

“Where’s Fitz?” Jemma asks, looking around as though she expects him to pop out of a cabinet.

“In 3A,” Skye says, referring to the storage closet they’ve turned into a makeshift shooting range. “Testing some new kind of bullets he made.”

“Ah, yes, the tag rounds,” Jemma says. “I wonder how that’s going. Perhaps I’ll join him.”

“Whatever,” Skye mutters. She’s still pouting.

Grant rolls his eyes. “I’m here now. Go get changed.”

“We can still train?” she asks, brightening.

“No reason not to,” he says with a shrug. “And I did promise.”

“Yes, you did,” she nods cheerfully. “ _Finally_. I never thought I would miss punching stuff, but I really, really do.”

He rolls his eyes again, but honestly, he’s sympathetic. Even though she’s not confined to the med-pod anymore, she’s been on restricted duty for the last two weeks. They’ve still been training every morning, technically, but it’s been more like physical therapy than anything else—easing her back into it, nothing too strenuous. He’d be going stir crazy, too, in her place.

“It’s gonna have to wait,” May says, appearing in the door of the lab. “Briefing room.”

Skye groans and drops her face into her hands. Jemma pats her on the back, sympathetic.

“Later,” he says to her, pushing away from the table and heading for the door. “Duty calls.”

“Just Ward,” May tells Skye and Jemma, who have both moved to follow.

They stop and exchange puzzled looks, but May’s apparently not in a sharing mood, because she turns and heads upstairs without another word. He follows closely, curious despite himself. If the briefing is being restricted to him, May, and Coulson, it’s a Level Six op, at least. A mission this highly classified means something serious is going down.

The impression is reinforced by the way May shuts the bulkhead door behind them once they step into the hallway.

“The kids are staying downstairs for this one,” she says in response to his raised eyebrows. “Just a precaution.”

“Against what?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer, but he gets a pretty big clue as soon as they walk into the lounge, because through the windows of the briefing room, he can see that Coulson is in the middle of a teleconference with Garrett.

This must be about Centipede—probably the Clairvoyant, specifically, if the secrecy is any indication. After all, the only other Centipede asset they’ve dealt with lately was Mike Peterson, and there would be no reason to shut out the rest of the team if he was under discussion. Actually, Jemma (as someone who performed a physical on him shortly before his disappearance) and Skye (as the only person who’s encountered him since) would be more use in a briefing about Peterson than he would.

He follows May into the briefing room and takes his place at the end of the table, giving Garrett a nod.

“Now that we’re all here,” Coulson says. “What’s this about, John?”

“Deathlok,” Garrett says. “You know we’ve been tracking him, these past two weeks.”

Apparently it’s about Peterson, after all. He wonders what’s happened that requires this level of secrecy.

“You found him?” Coulson asks, straightening.

“He found us,” Garrett corrects. “Attacked our safehouse in Sydney.”

“Any injuries?”

“Not a one,” Garrett says. He makes a face. “On _either_ side. We hit him with everything we had—40mm, shock grenades, even the damn ICER—didn’t make a dent.”

Grant exchanges a look with May. SHIELD safehouses are stocked with heavy duty weaponry; if what they had there didn’t make a dent, neither will anything in the Bus’ armory. It doesn’t bode well.

“So I’m guessing he got away, then?” Coulson asks wryly.

“Yeah,” Garrett says. “Bastard jumped right through the ceiling. Which was two feet of solid concrete, I might add.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” Coulson sighs.

Of course, the important thing to keep in mind—which Coulson and May don’t know—is that _Garrett_ is the one giving Deathlok his orders. So why order Deathlok to attack him?

“We must be getting close,” Garrett says. “Which is why I called.”

Of course. It gives him an excuse—an excuse to wrap things up with Centipede. The whole point of Centipede, after all, was to find a way to save Garrett’s life, and now that he has the GH-325, he doesn’t need it anymore. Actually, not only does he not need Centipede, at this point it’s more of a hindrance than anything else. He’s undoubtedly still got his scientists working on studying (and likely reproducing) the GH-325, and that’ll be easier if SHIELD isn’t actively hunting them.

It’s time to end the investigation into Centipede and the Clairvoyant, and the best way to do that is to find a fall guy to frame as the Clairvoyant, make sure he’s dead when SHIELD finds him, and call the whole thing a wash. He’ll probably make sure that Deathlok isn’t on scene—if he’s still ‘searching’ for him, he won’t be given any other assignments, which gives him all the time in the world to work on studying the GH-325 and rebuilding his operations. Hopefully a little more subtly, this time.

“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” Coulson asks.

“It’s time we end this once and for all,” Garrett says. “Find the bastard and bring him in. We’re on the right track, this proves it.”

“What track are you on?”

He leans forward. “The Index.”

Grant exchanges a speaking look with May. As Level Sevens in a briefing with Level Eights, their jobs are to be seen, not heard, so actual speaking is out of the question, but he knows they’re thinking the same thing. Luckily, Coulson says it for them.

“There are no psychics on the Index,” he points out.

“Exactly,” Garrett agrees. “We’ve been taking another look at the rejects, the people SHIELD has evaluated and discarded. We’ve narrowed it down to thirteen candidates, and it looks like one of ‘em is our guy.”

“The question is _which_ one,” Coulson muses. “And, if this guy is psychic, how do we plan a take-down without him finding out?”

Garrett raises his eyebrows. “Well, that’s a change in tune. Last time we spoke, you thought the psychic shtick was a load of hooey.”

“Let’s just say,” Coulson says wryly. “That my definition of impossible has recently become a little…looser.”

“Ah,” Garrett says. His eyes flick to Grant briefly, then return to Coulson. “Gotcha.”

Damn it. He must have read the report on the incident two weeks ago. Grant was really hoping to keep that particular fiasco to himself.

“So,” Garrett says. “Let’s pretend, just for kicks, that this psychic stuff is more than just mumbo-jumbo. How do we get around it?”

They brainstorm for a while— _all_ of them, not just Coulson and Garrett. Garrett calls Trip in, too, from where he was apparently working on writing up a report on the attack in Sydney. It’s difficult, since they can’t even all agree whether the Clairvoyant is even psychic, let alone how his powers might work, but eventually they come up with a workable plan.

It’s Garrett’s plan, of course—he’s probably had it drawn up for months already—but he manages to lead the rest of them into developing it for him. If things go south somehow, Coulson will be taking the brunt of the blame, because he’s the one who makes most of the suggestions they end up adopting. The record will _not_ show that Garrett was the one who led him to those suggestions, but that’s exactly what he does.

The first part of the plan is to get some distance. There’s no telling (as far as Coulson, May, and Trip know, at least) whether the Clairvoyant’s powers work within a limited range, but they all agree that trying can’t hurt. Cruising altitude above the North Pole is declared the farthest they can get without leaving the atmosphere (or hemisphere; the airspace above Antarctica is a nightmare of international relations, and no one wants to mess with that). They also decide to bring in some of the other Level Eights: Sitwell, Hand, and Blake, specifically.

Or, in other words, a member of HYDRA (actually loyal, not a self-serving ally like Grant and Garrett), the woman who sent Grant and Fitz into South Ossetia to die, and the man who would have ordered Grant to throw Jemma from the plane when she was dying from the Chitauri virus.

Oh, yeah. There’s no _way_ this can end badly.

The second part of the plan is, in time-honored SHIELD tradition, compartmentalization. Grant can’t really claim to follow the logic behind it—if the Clairvoyant _were_ actually psychic (and not just Garrett taking advantage of his security clearance), giving one person all of the information would only make it easier for him, wouldn’t it?—but then, it’s all Garrett’s plan anyway, so logic isn’t all that important.

Basically, they’ll give Garrett and Trip’s list of thirteen suspects to Skye, who, with her unique way of looking at things, will prioritize them and compile profiles on them. The specialists and field agents among them (which is to say: Coulson, May, Grant, Garrett, Trip, Sitwell, Hand, and Blake) will be split into teams of two. Skye will give one member of each team the information about their target, leaving the other in the dark. Somehow, Coulson has decided that this will hinder the Clairvoyant. As previously established, Grant really doesn’t get _how_ , but whatever. Not his problem.

There _is_ a slight snag in the plan, though.

“You know Vic’s going to put up a fuss about your girl being involved,” Garrett points out as the meeting is wrapping up. “She’s not gonna want to give a consultant access to the information she’ll need to pull this off.”

Coulson frowns. “Surely she’ll make an exception in this case. The Clairvoyant’s been named a Priority Two threat.”

“Maybe,” May says. “If it was anyone but Skye.”

“They didn’t exactly hit it off,” Grant agrees. After the way things went down when Coulson was missing, there’s no way Hand is going to bend protocol for Skye. Luckily, though, he’s got this one covered. “But it’s an easy problem to fix.”

“Make her an agent?” Trip guesses.

“Is she ready for that?” May asks. Her face is, as usual, mostly blank, but Grant thinks he detects a hint of concern in her eyes. She’d never admit it—she knows it’s a weakness—but she’s fond of Skye. Of all of them, really.

He nods. “She’s passed all the basic quals—physical _and_ written.”

“Written?” Coulson asks. His tone is a slightly aggravating mix of impressed and amused. “How’d you manage that?”

“Called it a part of her training,” he shrugs. “She’s been so desperate to do anything that doesn’t involve lying in bed and staring at the ceiling…” Or hacking major corporations just ‘for funsies’ (her words), but he decides not to bring that up. “Anyway, all the paperwork’s ready. Just needs the signatures.”

“Ah,” Coulson says. “That…is a problem.”

Most agents go through one of the academies, but there’s a precedent for consultants becoming agents in the field. It’s happened enough that there’s a protocol for it. All it takes is the consultant passing a series of tests—both physical challenges and written exams—and then paperwork affirming the consultant’s suitability, bearing the signatures of the consultant’s Supervising Officer and two Level Eight agents, gets filed with SHIELD, and that’s that.

Skye completed the last of the physical challenges shortly before getting shot, and he’s been using the written exams to keep her occupied as she recovers. The only reason he didn’t turn the paperwork in to Coulson as soon as she passed the last exam four days ago is that there’s only one Level Eight agent who has regular contact with Skye—Coulson himself.

In order to get another Level Eight agent—one who _hasn’t_ seen her in action—to sign the paperwork, Skye will have to demonstrate that she’s fit for duty—which, at the moment, she’s not. Grant’s counting on Garrett to step up for this one, considering the fact that his plan kind of depends on Skye being an agent.

And step up he does. “It’s not a problem, Phil. I’ll sign.”

“Skye’s in no shape—”

“No need for a demonstration,” Garrett interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “If Ward says she’s ready, the girl’s ready.”

“Thank you, sir,” Grant says. It’s not really much of a compliment—Garrett needs Skye to be an agent; he’d sign the papers even if she was completely incompetent—but he appreciates it anyway.

“Don’t worry about it,” Garrett says. He looks at Coulson. “So, you wanna fill in the rest of them, or should I?”

Coulson taps his fingers on the holocom, thinking.

“Don’t tell them,” he finally decides. “I’ll call them, ask them to meet us somewhere. We’ll keep the reason for the meeting to ourselves until we get into position above the North Pole.”

“Good idea,” Garrett agrees. “The less they know, the better.” He looks away for a moment, then back at them. “The Hub and the Sandbox are too public for a pick-up. You know where Sitwell is these days?”

“He was on a carrier in the North Atlantic, last I heard,” Coulson says. “That should work pretty well, don’t you think?”

Garrett grins. “Perfect!”

They arrange to meet on the carrier in three days—allowing time for Coulson to contact and convince Hand and Blake to join them—and then Grant and May are excused from the meeting. They part ways in the lounge, Grant heading back downstairs and May going…somewhere else. There’s really not much point in trying to track the Cavalry’s movements.

He returns to the lab to find that Fitz has joined Jemma and Skye. All three of them pin him with expectant looks as soon as he walks through the door.

He sighs. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” Skye asks. “What was that about?”

“The bulkhead door was closed,” Jemma adds. “It hasn’t been closed since…well, since Peru.”

“And that was a hi-jacking,” Fitz reminds him (as if he could _forget_ ). “Which clearly this was not. So what was it?”

“It was a meeting,” he says. “A _classified_ meeting.”

Skye groans, frustrated, while Jemma and Fitz trade disappointed frowns. This is SHIELD, so it’s not like any of them are particularly surprised, but it’s probably best if he gets them off the topic, anyway. Skye, as has been established, has been bored out of her mind lately, and she’s a lot more likely to get into trouble when she’s bored. The last thing he needs is for her to talk Jemma and Fitz into doing something crazy—like, for instance, bringing up the archived security feed from the briefing room to see what they were up to.

“How are your tag rounds coming?” he asks Fitz.

“Uh, they still need some work,” he says, frowning. “I think the weight’s off, a bit. Do you have time to test them later?”

“Sure,” Grant nods. “Just let me know when.”

“But training first,” Skye says. “Right?”

She bounces a little in place, and he’s tempted to tell her no, just to see her reaction, but decides that it would be too cruel.

“Training first,” he agrees. “Go get changed.”

“Yes!” she cheers, and darts out of the lab.

“Wrap your hands,” he calls after her.

She shouts something vaguely affirmative over her shoulder, already halfway up the stairs, and Grant turns to look at Jemma and Fitz, resigned.

“This is gonna be fun,” he says flatly.

“Poor darling,” Jemma says, patting him on the arm. “Just remember to take it easy on her, please. Despite what she thinks, she is _not_ yet ready to return to her usual schedule.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t break her.”

“Well, I should hope not,” Fitz mutters. “It’s too late to get our money back.”

\---

Three days later, things on the Bus are a little tense.

Jemma is approaching the point of outright mutiny in the face of Coulson’s continuing refusal to allow her to send Skye’s blood out for testing, and Grant is getting a little tired of trying to justify Coulson’s decision. Mostly because he doesn’t agree with it at all, and it really annoys him to have to take Coulson’s side in _anything_. He does it anyway, of course, for the sake of keeping Jemma from doing anything deserving of a court-martial, but he’s not happy about it.

Fitz, naturally, is in a bad mood because Jemma is in a bad mood. Coulson is in a bad mood because he doesn’t like being questioned by anyone but Skye and he _still_ hasn’t figured out that _because I said so_ isn’t enough to get Jemma to see things his way. May…well, it’s kind of hard to tell with her, but Grant kind of gets the feeling that she’s angry, too. About what, he couldn’t possibly guess.

The only person who’s _not_ in a bad mood is Skye. She’s so relieved to be back to active duty that she’s been literally _skipping_ around the Bus. She’s ready to go back into the field, and has been driving absolutely everyone crazy with her frequent requests for updates on their mission status.

It’s only after they’ve both taken their post-morning training showers and met in the kitchen for breakfast that he gives her the answer she’s been waiting for.

“Active,” he says as he pours himself a cup of coffee. “We’ve got a briefing this afternoon.”

Skye fumbles and nearly drops her spoon. “What, really?”

“Really.”

“Freaking _finally_ ,” she sighs. “Thank god. I’ve been going out of my _mind_ with boredom, here.”

“Trust me,” he says. “We’ve noticed.”

“I am _more_ than ready to get back on that horse,” she continues, ignoring him. “Or…bike. Is it bike? It might be bike.”

“No, I think it’s horse,” he says.

“Well, whatever. The important thing is that we’re back in action for _real_. No more lying around in bed while the rest of you get to run off and fight aliens.”

He decides against informing her that her role in this mission will be strictly administrative. For one thing, she doesn’t technically have the clearance to know the details of the mission yet. And for another, he’d really hate to burst her bubble when she’s looking so excited.

“Right,” he says instead. “If you say so.”

He sets his empty dishes in the sink and pushes away from the counter.

“I’ll be in the lab,” he tells her. “You…might wanna change.”

“Why?” she asks, frowning down at herself. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

A lot, actually. Skye’s approach to fashion is best described as _weird_.

“We’re gonna have company for this one,” he says. “You’ll wanna make a good impression.”

“Company?” she asks. “What kind of company?”

She doesn’t have the clearance to know that yet, either, so he ignores the question (and the way she calls after him) and leaves. There’s no telling how long this mission to find the Clairvoyant will last—Garrett won’t want to make it too easy on them, for fear of rousing suspicion—and he wants to get in some time with Jemma before things start.

He finds her in a bad mood. She’s muttering to herself as she moves around the lab, and while she’s not exactly _slamming_ things down—all of her equipment is very delicate, and she would never risk that—she’s definitely not being as careful as usual. She’s obviously fresh from another confrontation with Coulson, and, watching her, he makes a split second decision.

“Okay, no,” he says.

Jemma starts a bit, surprised, and spins to face him.

“Would you _please_ stop doing that?” she demands, a little frazzled. “Shock can _kill_ a person, you know, and one of these days you’re going to sneak up on me and _pfft_.” She makes a sharp motion. “My heart will just _give out_ entirely, and I shall be dead— _permanently_ , unlike some.”

Oh, yeah. She definitely needs a break.

“Sorry,” he says. He crosses the lab to stand in front of her, taking her by the shoulders to keep her from returning to what she was doing. “But, as I was saying, no.”

She blinks. “No what?”

“No, I’m not going to let you spend _another_ morning working yourself up about this,” he clarifies. “You need a break.”

“A break?” she echoes, as though she’s never heard of such a thing. “No, I can’t take a _break_ , I’ve still got—”

“Jemma,” he interrupts. “You’ve been working on this for weeks, and you’re not making any progress. What’s that they say about the definition of insanity?”

“Doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results,” she says, then frowns. “That’s a _horrible_ analogy, Grant, the scientific method is—”

“Right, okay,” he says. If he lets her get started, she’ll never stop. “Sorry, bad example. But my point stands. The only thing you’re doing right now is giving yourself a headache. And scaring Fitz.”

“I am _not_ scared,” Fitz interjects.

“No, you’re just cowering in the corner because you like the view,” Grant says dryly. “Sorry, my mistake.”

“I am not _cowering_ ,” he squawks. “I’m testing the resonant—”

“Whatever,” Grant dismisses. He returns his attention to Jemma and is glad to find the diversion worked. She’s already looking calmer, her frown replaced by a smile at Fitz’s offended protests. He had a feeling that poking fun at Fitz (who he knows very well isn’t cowering; Jemma in a bad mood is really more adorable than frightening) would do the trick. “Jemma.”

She looks away from Fitz and back to Grant.

“You need a break,” he says, a little more gently. “Step away from the problem for a while, let your genius brain rest for a bit.”

She sighs. “I suppose a breather couldn’t hurt. What did you have in mind?”

They end up watching a movie, stretched out in his bunk with some science documentary playing on Jemma’s laptop. He doesn’t follow it at all, of course, but Jemma’s completely fascinated, and it’s nice to see her smiling and enthusiastic about science again, rather than frustrated and upset, the way she has been lately.

She tries to explain the concept the documentary is covering, and he starts to get it, at least a little (it’s definitely about some kind of…something that may or may not exist), but he’s forced to interrupt her before she can finish her explanation. He really can’t help it, all right? Her eyes are lit up and she’s gesturing excitedly and she looks so _happy_ to be talking about this with him, even though she has to simplify it so much—he really can’t resist the urge to kiss her.

And it’s not that he _intends_ for them to spend the rest of the morning making out like teenagers, but…that’s exactly what they do. They usually try not to take things too far on the Bus—taking into account the thin walls, cramped spaces, and ever-present risk of losing their exemption, it’s not really worth the risk. Still, they exist in a state of constant temptation, and it might have gone a little past making out if not for the intercom chiming. It’s the particular tone that means the plane will be landing soon, and Jemma pulls away from him, surprised.

“We’re landing?” she asks. She darts a glance at the window, but doesn’t raise the shade. Her fear of heights has somewhat faded, months after her dive out of the cargo bay, but not to the point where she enjoys looking out the window from thirty thousand feet. “Where are we? The last I checked, we were above nothing but open water.”

“We’re landing on a carrier,” he says. Regretfully, he nudges her off of him. “Picking up some company.”

Jemma frowns, sliding off the bed. “What sort of company?”

“Highly ranked company,” he says. “You, Fitz, and Skye might wanna make yourselves scarce.”

“Does this have anything to do with the briefing we were shut out of a few days ago?” she asks. She looks down at herself, checking to make sure that she’s presentable, then rolls her eyes and does up the top three buttons on her shirt.

“Yeah,” he says as he stands. “Don’t worry, you’ll get the details soon enough.”

“Am I going to like them?”

“Probably not,” he admits. Considering the fact that the last time they went against Centipede, Skye got shot—and the time before that, Coulson got tortured and _Grant_ got shot? He can’t see Jemma being too happy about this particular op.

“Of course not,” she sighs. “Well, the break was nice while it lasted. Thank you, Grant. You were right, I needed it terribly.”

“Always glad to be of service,” he says, smiling.

She does look better—less stressed, more determined. The determination worries him a bit, but he doesn’t have time to address it, because the intercom clicks on in that moment, May summoning Grant to the lounge and ordering Jemma, Fitz, and Skye to leave the cabin level.

“That’s my cue.”

Jemma blinks at him, obviously surprised by his distinctly unenthusiastic tone. He can’t help it, though. Dealing with Hand while Coulson was missing was hard enough; having to put up with Hand _and_ Blake is going to be torture. It’s going to take all of his self-control not to shoot Blake on sight, and there’s no way of knowing just how long he’s going to be sticking around. The next few days are going to be an exercise in discipline, and he’s definitely not looking forward to them.

“Is everything all right?” Jemma asks, frowning a little.

“Yeah, fine,” he says, putting away his frustration. “Just…can’t say that _I’m_ too crazy about this op, either.”

“Well, now I’m _really_ worried,” she says, but she’s smiling, obviously reassured by his light tone. “I’ll go find Fitz and Skye, then. See you later?”

“Later,” he agrees.

They leave the bunk together and then part ways—Grant heading for the lounge, Jemma for the ladder that leads down into the storage area. Grant carefully tests his grip on his temper as he goes. He can’t afford to lose control over his rage and go after Blake. Even putting aside the trouble killing a superior officer would get Grant into, Garrett wanted Blake here for a reason. Grant won’t interfere with that, no matter how badly he wants to kill Blake.

There’s no one else in the lounge yet, but he can hear footsteps on the stairs. He takes a deep breath and blanks his face as Coulson steps through the door into the lounge. Show time.

\---

The meeting goes about as he expected it to. Any contributions here would be even more unwelcome than they would have been in the initial meeting between Coulson and Garrett, so all he has to do is stand next to May and look like he’s listening. That’s actually a good thing; it gives him time to acclimate himself to Hand and Blake’s presence without having to actively play nice with them.

He thinks he’ll be able to maintain his control well enough. He doesn’t have a gunshot wound to distract himself with this time, but it’s been five months since he touched the berserker staff, and the effects aren’t as strong as they were the last time he saw Hand, four months ago. That, combined with all of his practice in utilizing May’s rage-control techniques, is enough to let him maintain his composure.

That doesn’t mean that he’s not hit with the urge to cross Blake off every time he opens his mouth. It just means that he’s not in danger of losing control enough to actually _do_ it.

Hand, as predicted, objects to Skye’s involvement in the mission as soon as it’s suggested. In response, Coulson sends Grant to fetch Skye from downstairs, which he does happily. It would be just as easy to use the intercom to summon her, but he appreciates the escape—the chance to get away from the room for a moment and re-center himself. Coulson brought up what happened a few weeks ago again, this time a little more directly, and, weirdly, it kind of shook him.

It only takes him a few moments to get back on an even keel, though, and he dismisses the whole thing. He’s just on edge, that’s all. By the time Skye’s been filled in on the plan, he’s all but forgotten it.

Skye approves of the plan. She has a few suggestions, though.

“What if we make it a double blind?”

“How so?” Hand asks.

“Well, I’ll give one person from each team the potential Clairvoyant’s coordinates and I’ll give the other one the identity,” she says. “That way no _one_ person knows the full specs of the op until you get there.”

“I like how you think,” Garrett says. He even sounds like he means it. “I like how she thinks.”

“One question,” Skye says to Coulson. “How am I supposed to access all the classified files without someone in the room? I don’t have clearance.”

Coulson smiles. “Now you do.” He holds out a wallet. “Welcome to SHIELD, Skye.”

Skye takes the wallet and opens it to reveal a SHIELD badge as May enters the lounge, followed by Jemma and Fitz. Apparently she went to get them, which is a nice touch. The two of them are definitely Skye’s closest friends among the team—possibly anywhere, considering how isolated she was before joining them—and it’ll mean something to have them here for this.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” Skye whispers. She smiles down at the badge, then looks at Coulson. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Coulson says. “You’ve passed every required SHIELD exam with flying colors.”

“For a Level One agent,” Hand interjects.

Coulson ignores her. “You’ve assisted us on multiple field missions, put your life on the line. You _earned_ this.”

“Hell, you took two in the gut,” Garrett comments. “More than Sitwell here’s ever done.”

Sitwell grimaces a little.

Coulson orders them back to work as Skye continues to smile down at her badge. As far as ceremonies go, it’s a little lacking—Grant’s graduation from the Academy was three hours long—but that might be for the best. Skye and Coulson are both already looking a little choked up; any longer and there might actually be tears.

Garrett congratulates Skye, May claps her on the arm, and then it’s Jemma’s turn. She’s practically been bouncing in place, and now she hurries forward to hug Skye.

“Congratulations, Skye,” she says. She sounds a little choked up, herself—not surprising; she told him once that the day she got her badge is one of her happiest memories. Of course she would get emotional over Skye, one of her best friends, getting a badge of her own.

“Awesome!” Skye squeals, mostly to herself, as she returns Jemma’s hug.

Fitz hugs her as well, and then he and Jemma leave, heading back to the lab. May must have told them to make themselves scarce as soon as Skye got her badge—otherwise, he’s pretty sure this would turn into a party.

Skye turns to Grant as soon as they’re gone.

“Couldn’t have done it without a _great_ and very patient SO,” she says.

It’s nice to get some acknowledgement; he remembers very well (and very _not_ fondly) the days when he had to drag and bully her through training.

It’s been a while since he had to do that, though. And, once she started taking training seriously, it wasn’t that much of a hardship. He never thought mentoring would be his thing—certainly never planned to play SO to _anyone_ , let alone a self-proclaimed ‘hacktivist’ who betrayed their team in the very first month—but…it wasn’t bad. Actually, he kind of enjoyed it.

“You put in the work,” he says. “All I did was…show you the way.”

“More like _drag_ me along the way,” she corrects, but she’s smiling. “I know I didn’t make it easy on you, so…thanks.”

“My pleasure,” he says. He grips her shoulder for a moment, then walks away.

Mostly because she needs to get to work, but partly because he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s surprised at himself, honestly—surprised how _proud_ of her he is, how accomplished he feels. There’s no way Skye could have passed a single one of the SHIELD field qualifications when they pulled her out of her van six months ago. It’s weird, how good it makes him feel to know he helped her get to this point.

He shakes it off and heads down to the lab. Now that everything’s set, he can fill Jemma and Fitz in on the bare bones of the op. Not that they technically need to know—if there’s one thing he likes about this plan, it’s that Jemma isn’t involved in it at all—but there’s no reason _not_ to tell them. And it’s not like he’s got anything else to occupy his time with until he gets his assigned partner and location.

Jemma takes the news of the op with surprising equanimity. She orders him to be careful, makes a pointed comment about restocking the first aid kit, and then changes the subject.

He lets himself get drawn into a discussion about the fast-acting Lidocaine injectors that come standard in field kits—apparently Jemma’s been brainstorming ways to improve them—without mentioning the way she stands a little closer than she usually does when there are superior officers hanging around.

Over the last two and a half weeks, every single member of the team has made a point of telling him how worried Jemma was while he was…gone, during the latest Asgardian incident. The word _panic_ has come up more than once. If she needs to distract herself from the thought of him going back into the field, he’s happy to go along with it. He’s sure as hell done the same thing often enough, and he can afford to be generous, since this time Jemma’s not at risk at all.

\---

The plan ends up undergoing one more change: Sitwell and Hand are both out. Sitwell because he’s been sent out on assignment (to the Lemurian Star, of all places, which is just…strange) and Hand because she wants to remain at the Hub and coordinate the field teams that will be waiting to act as back-up for whoever finds the Clairvoyant.

So instead of four teams, there are three. It doesn’t make much of a difference, in the grand scheme—Grant would be willing to bet some serious money that they’ll find the Clairvoyant (or at least the person Garrett’s setting up to take the fall) within the first two rounds of investigation, if not _the_ first.

May, after letting him know about Sitwell and Hand’s departures, sends him up to the Cage to speak to Skye, where he learns that he’s been partnered with Trip (which is good; they work well together) and that Trip has the coordinates for where they’re going (which is less good; he hates going in blind). Then Skye gives him a phone which will receive the information about the target as soon as he’s within one mile of the coordinates Trip has.

She stops him before he can leave.

“So,” she says. “I had kind of a talk with Garrett.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she nods. “I didn’t realize he was your SO.”

“Right, you were unconscious the last time he was here,” he remembers.

“He’s the one who assigned you all those books to read?” she asks.

He nods. Then he makes a mental note to mention to Garrett that he’s nearly through with the list. Of course, Garrett will probably just assign him _more_ books, but that’s all right. He has a lot of free time these days.

Skye fidgets with one of the phones on the table. She looks uncertain and a little awkward, and he leans forward.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” she says. “It’s just…he sounded really…I don’t know, proud. You guys are close, huh?”

“We are,” he agrees. “Garrett’s been like a father to me since before I graduated the Academy.”

“Must be nice,” she says, a little wistfully.

“Hey,” he says, propping his elbows on the table. “That’s what it’s about, you know. Your SO is more than just a drill instructor. He’s supposed to be family.”

Skye gives him a weird look. “If you’re about to tell me I’m like a daughter to you…”

“No,” he laughs. “Definitely not.” He hesitates, then continues. “But we _are_ family.”

He doesn’t know why, but it suddenly feels important that she knows this. Garrett’s been a father and a guide to him since he was sixteen years old, and while he can’t play that role for Skye—and really doesn’t _want_ to—Grant’s her SO. She needs to know that she can still count on him, that their connection doesn’t end just because she’s a SHIELD agent now.

She looks away from him, obviously getting a little emotional. It’s not a surprise; he knows half of the appeal of SHIELD, to her, was _belonging_ somewhere. Having it stated so plainly that she does is having a predictable effect.

“Really?” she asks quietly, after a long moment.

“Really,” he says. “Skye, you’re like the sister I never had.” He pauses. “Or wanted.”

She laughs quietly and rubs at her eyes.

“Thanks, Ward,” she says. “That…means a lot.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, feeling more than a little awkward. As (weirdly) important as it feels for her to know where they stand, it’s still way more emotional than he’s comfortable getting with anyone but Jemma. “Don’t go spreading it around.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she promises, mock solemn.

He stands. “Are we done here?”

“Yeah,” she says. “You can send Coulson in.”

She’s still smiling to herself as he leaves the Cage, and he tries to put the whole thing out of his mind. Seriously, he has no idea where that came from.

He finds Coulson and sends him to the Cage, then heads back downstairs. He’s surprised to find Jemma and Garrett speaking in the cargo bay. Judging by Jemma’s expression, they’ve had a fairly emotional conversation of their own. It must be something in the water.

“Hey,” he says as he steps off the stairs.

Jemma takes a deep breath. “Grant, hello.”

She sounds a little teary, and he eyes her, concerned.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Oh, yes,” she says, smiling slightly. “Everything is fine.” She squeezes his arm, then steps away. “I’ll give you two a moment.”

He watches her walk away, into the lab (where, he notes, Trip is waiting; good, he won’t have to track him down later), and then turns to Garrett.

“Sir?”

“Don’t worry, son,” Garrett says. “Pretty sure those are happy tears.”

“Happy tears,” he echoes. He glances after Jemma, then back to Garrett. “Do I _want_ to know what you were talking about?”

“Probably not,” Garrett grins. “It would just embarrass you.”

“Right,” he says slowly. He makes a mental note to ask Jemma about it later, then clears his throat.

“How are you, Grant?” Garrett asks before he can say anything. His grin is gone, replaced by a serious expression. “I heard about that sorceress pulling mind control on you.”

Grant winces before he can stop himself. The whole incident was very unpleasant and he’d really like to forget it entirely—unfortunately, that’s not really possible when people keep bringing it up.

“I’m fine, sir,” he says. “It wasn’t fun, but…”

“Asgardians,” Garrett says, shaking his head. “It’s enough to make you wish we were alone in the universe.”

“It really is,” he agrees, then hesitates. He wants to ask Garrett how _he’s_ feeling—he’s fairly certain he hasn’t taken the GH-325 yet (if nothing else, he’ll probably wait for a while just to see if Skye displays any side-effects), which means, for the moment, he’s still dying—but he doesn’t dare. Not with Jemma, Trip, and Fitz so close.

They’ve come this far; he can’t let a stupid mistake ruin everything they’ve worked for.

Garrett, as always, reads him like a book. “I’m fine, son.” He pins Grant with a significant look. “Deathlok didn’t get anywhere near me.”

“Good,” Grant says, relaxing slightly. “I’m glad to hear that, sir.”

“I’ll be _glad_ to bring this bastard in,” Garrett says. He opens his mouth to continue, but he’s interrupted by the chime of the intercom. He looks up. “What was that?”

“Imminent landing warning,” Grant tells him.

“Show time,” Garrett grins. But it fades as he claps Grant on the shoulder and looks at him seriously. “Be careful, son.”

“You too, sir,” he says.

The Bus lands with barely a thump, just as Coulson appears on the catwalk.

“Phil,” Garrett calls up to him. “You ready?”

“More than,” Coulson says, starting down the stairs. “You got the coordinates?”

“Right here,” Garrett assures him, patting his pocket.

After exchanging their goodbyes, Coulson and Garrett leave the Bus while Grant heads into the lab. They’ve returned to the carrier they picked their guests up from this morning, where each of the three teams will be taking a jump jet to their coordinates. He has no idea where they’re going, since Trip has the coordinates, but chances are it’ll take a while to get there—they are, after all, currently in the middle of the ocean.

Which means that he needs to say goodbye to Jemma and then get a move on.

Skye has joined the others in the lab, and he enters to find them all laughing as Trip speaks.

“And then he says, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, I need to borrow this’ and takes her necklace right off her neck,” he’s saying.

Damn it. Of all the stories he could tell them.

“Off her neck?” Fitz asks. “How’d he manage _that_?”

“She didn’t even notice,” Trip laughs. “The man just _blinded_ her with that photo-shoot smile of his and by the time she recovered, he was gone.”

“Ward? _Smile_?” Skye sounds skeptical. “At someone other than Simmons? You’re so lying.”

“Why did he need her _necklace_ , though?” Jemma asks, after giving Skye a playful shove.

“Okay,” Grant interrupts before Trip can answer. “Story time’s over. We’re on a mission, here.”

Trip sighs. “And we were just getting to the good part, too.”

Yeah, Grant’s pretty grateful for his timing. The last thing he wants is Jemma hearing about the rest of that mission. Any of them, really, but Jemma especially. There are some things that he’d really rather she not know about him, and that particular op is one of them.

“You can tell us later,” Fitz says, a little too eagerly for Grant’s taste. “When you get back.”

“If we get back,” Grant says grimly. There’s not really much risk associated with this op, as far as he can tell—not for him, at least, since Garrett’s pulling all the strings—but he wants to bring down the mood and distract from the story Trip was just telling.

It works—on some of them, at least.

“You boys ready for this?” Skye asks, looking between him and Trip a little worriedly. “Could get hairy.”

“Sure,” Trip shrugs easily. “Can’t be any worse than that time in San Diego when we—”

“Time to go,” Grant interrupts. He can’t let Skye learn about _that_ mission, either; she’d never let him live it down. Neither would Jemma, actually. “Trip, you got the coordinates?”

“I got ‘em,” he confirms. He’s grinning, obviously amused by Grant’s reaction, and Grant makes a mental note to hit him at some point today—later, when he’s not expecting it.

Maybe Jemma can tell he’s contemplating violence, because she clears her throat and takes his hand.

“Good luck, Agent Triplett,” she says, voice a little louder than necessary. “Do be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” Trip says. “But don’t worry. I’ll keep Ward out of trouble.”

“Thank you,” Jemma says. “I certainly would appreciate it.” She gives him a slightly apologetic smile, then turns it on Fitz and Skye. “Might I have a moment alone with Grant?”

Trip nods. “I’ll go pick us out a jet,” he tells Grant. “Won’t be as cushy as this, though. I hope you remember how to rough it.”

Grant rolls his eyes and waves him off. Fitz and Skye both wish him luck, and then disappear back into the storage area, conspiring in low voices. He watches them go, wondering if he should be concerned—Fitz and Skye plotting together can’t possibly end well—but is distracted by Jemma’s grip on his hand tightening.

He looks down at her and sighs, reading the worry on her face.

“Hey,” he says, turning to face her properly. “I’ll be fine.”

She makes a face at him.

“I read that report on Deathlok’s attack on the safehouse, you know,” she says. “He _shook off_ the effects not only of the ICER but of _two_ shock grenades. If he comes after you—”

“He won’t,” he interrupts. “Look, the whole point of this plan is to keep the Clairvoyant from knowing that we’re coming. If he can’t see us, he can’t send Deathlok after us.”

Of course, he still doesn’t see how this plan would keep anything from the Clairvoyant even if he _was_ psychic, but—whatever. Everyone else seems to be pretty confident in it.

Except Jemma, apparently. “What if it doesn’t work? What if he _does_ know you’re coming?”

“Then…we’ll hope he sends Deathlok after one of the other teams?” he jokes.

“Grant.”

He sighs. The truth is, he doesn’t know whether or not Deathlok will show up wherever he’s going. He’s almost definitely going to show up _somewhere_ , to let the team know that they’re on the right track, but whether he shows up where Grant is going depends entirely on where Skye is sending them. He _is_ sure that Deathlok won’t be killing him—will probably have orders not to even touch him—but he can hardly tell Jemma that.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says finally. “Deathlok might show up, he might not. We might catch the Clairvoyant or this might be another wild goose chase. I can’t make any promises, Jemma.”

She bites her lip. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“That I can do,” he nods. He hears a sound from the cargo bay and glances over his shoulder to see May and Blake leaving. He looks back at Jemma. “I have to go.”

“Of course,” she says. She steps forward and hugs him tightly. “ _Please_ be careful.”

Her voice shakes slightly, and he feels horrible as he returns the hug. Jemma doesn’t usually get _this_ upset over him working, but, considering what happened the last time he went out, it’s not surprising. It does, however, make him feel that much worse that he _knows_ he’s not really in danger on this one. Unfortunately, there’s no way of letting her know that without giving away his knowledge of the Clairvoyant, and that’s one thing he can never do—not even for Jemma.

“I will,” he promises. He leans down and kisses her quickly, then steps away. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Good luck,” she says, trying to smile. It’s not a great attempt, and it makes him feel even worse.

He’ll be glad when this mission is over—when the Clairvoyant thing has been wrapped up and SHIELD is convinced that Centipede is finished. It’ll be a relief not to have to worry about it anymore. And maybe, when everything is said and done, he’ll start working on convincing Jemma to go back to a lab posting—the Sandbox, maybe, or the Hub. He knows she joined the team because she wanted adventure, and she’s gotten plenty of _that_ in the last six months. She may be at the point where she’s ready to return to working in peace.

Even if she’s not, things are going to be a lot easier from now on, with no Centipede to worry about. He really can’t wait to close _this_ particular chapter of this assignment.

“Thanks,” he says. “But I won’t need it.”

\---

Yet another flaw in the compartmentalization plan becomes obvious as soon as Trip lands the jump jet. Grant may not know the coordinates of their location, but he _does_ have eyes, and there are signs everywhere. He knows where they are two seconds after they leave the plane.

They’re in Milton Keynes which, if he remembers his geography correctly, is fairly close to London.

“This way,” Trip says, indicating the nearby sidewalk. He follows Grant’s gaze to the large sign that says ‘Milton Keynes Prison 2km’ and shrugs. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

“Right,” Grant sighs. “Lead the way.”

Trip starts down the sidewalk and Grant falls into step beside him. They walk in silence for a while, both of them on guard for any possible threats. Trip appears strangely tense, and as they get closer to the prison, it only seems to get worse.

“So,” he says abruptly. “Garrett says your family’s like the cable version of the Kennedys.”

Grant glances at him, surprised. They’ve worked together fairly often, over the years, and they’ve gotten to know one another pretty well. Well enough for Grant to know a fair bit about Trip’s family, and well enough for Trip to know that Grant _doesn’t_ talk about _his_ family.

Also, the hell Garrett did. Grant generally pretends that Garrett is the only family he has, and Garrett’s all too happy to go along with it.

“I doubt he said that,” he says.

“Fine, I did my own research,” Trip admits.

“Why?” he asks.

“What, a man can’t be curious?” Trip shrugs.

“We’ve worked together on and off since we were Level Twos,” Grant reminds him. “And you, what, woke up this morning with the urge to Google me?”

“Maybe.”

Grant stops. “Come on, man.”

For a minute, Trip seems like he’s going to keep up the innocent act, but then he sighs heavily and drops it.

“Just trying to keep things light,” he says. “Guess it isn’t working too well.”

“Not with that topic, no,” Grant agrees. “But you’ve never had a problem keeping things light before. What’s up?”

“I don’t like our orders,” Trip says.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

Trip looks away for a minute. “The Clairvoyant almost killed your friend Skye, but he _did_ kill my partner. Dan Monroe. Great guy. Had a son.” He shakes his head. “You know what it’s like telling a six-year-old that his dad isn’t coming home? I had to do that. I had to look that little boy in the eye and tell him…” He breaks off. “Because of the Clairvoyant.”

Well, that explains it.

“And our orders are to take him in, not out,” Grant finishes. “You’d rather cross him off.”

“Yeah,” Trip says. “I really, really would. So we find this guy, you might wanna stay out of my way.”

“I get it,” he says. “I do. But you know I can’t let you do that. You try to cross off the Clairvoyant, I’m gonna have to stop you.”

“Are you, now?” Trip smiles tightly. “Because orders are orders, right?”

“Right.”

“Ask yourself something, Ward,” Trip says quietly. “If Skye hadn’t made it, what would you be thinking right now?”

Before he can consider that, he’s distracted by the beeping of the phone Skye gave him. He pulls it out and checks it.

“Elijah Fordham,” he reads off the screen. “32, military background. Here.” He swipes the information over to Trip’s waiting phone.

“Serving eighteen life sentences,” Trip reads. “For a killing spree in the 90s.” He looks up at Grant. “Sounds more psycho than psychic.”

Grant nods in agreement and tucks the phone back into his pocket.

“Let’s go,” he says.

They head into the prison in silence. By the time they reach the front door, the tension from their disagreement has disappeared. They’re too comfortable working together to let something like a minor difference of opinion linger after the argument’s finished.

A quick flash of Grant’s badge gets them into the prison. The guard closes the door behind them, and the sound echoes strangely. They both glance behind them, then around the entrance.

There’s no one at the front desk. Grant leans close to the security glass, taking in the mug of tea and the crackers on the other side of the window. Someone was here a few minutes ago—he can see steam rising from the tea; still warm—but there’s no sign of them now.

“Nobody home,” he comments. “Odd.”

Trip looks around, obviously on guard. Grant pushes away from the counter and scans the room.

“What do you think?” Trip asks.

Before he can answer, their comms activate. It’s Hand.

“All back-up teams, move in,” she orders. “We have an agent down. Repeat, Agent Blake is down.”

Grant and Trip are moving before she finishes her first sentence. Grant pulls the door open, and the two of them leave the prison. There’s no need for conversation; as soon as they’re outside, they run for the jump jet.

Grant can’t claim to be anything but happy that Blake is down—in fact, he hopes very sincerely that the man is dead, even though he wanted to kill him personally—but May was Blake’s partner, and the lack of status on her is concerning.

Of course, they don’t actually know where May and Blake _are_ , so once they get back to the plane, they’re kind of at a loss.

Trip radios Hand, asking for orders, and there’s a long silence. They exchange a look.

“Return to the carrier,” she says finally.

“Understood,” Trip says. He opens his mouth, presumably to ask for a status update on Blake and May, but before he can speak there’s a pointed _click_ from the radio as Hand signs off.

“Well,” Grant says. “That’s…a little worrying.”

“Tell me about it,” Trip agrees. “Well, we have our orders. Back to the carrier.”

“Back to the carrier.”

\---

They arrive on the carrier and return to the Bus to find that the others are already back. The Bus takes off as soon as they step into the cargo bay, the ramp closing as they climb.

Coulson is waiting, grim-faced, in the lab. It’s empty otherwise, and Grant briefly wonders where Jemma and Fitz are. Still, that’s hardly his main concern at the moment, so he gets straight to the point.

“Sir,” he says. “Do we have a status on Blake?”

“The med team got to him in time,” Coulson says. “He’s alive, but he’s critical. They’ve got him in a med-pod for the moment.”

He was hoping for _dead_ , but critical’s better than nothing.

“Where are we headed, sir?” Trip asks.

“The Hub,” Coulson says simply. He motions to the door, and they follow him out of the lab and up the stairs. “We have new orders.”

They find everyone gathered in the lounge—including May, who’s looking a little battered. Jemma is sitting next to her, examining a cut on her temple, but May waves her off and stands as they enter the lounge.

“Deathlok was waiting for us,” she says without preamble. “We were sent to interview Thomas Nash at an assisted living facility in Georgia. He’s allegedly catatonic, but there was no sign of him.”

“You’re sure?” Coulson asks, frowning.

“We didn’t have time for a thorough search before Deathlok showed up,” May acknowledges. “But the place was deserted.”

“So was the prison we were sent to,” Grant says.

“We never made it to our location,” Garrett frowns. “Guess this Clairvoyant saw us coming after all.”

Coulson sighs and turns to Jemma. “Simmons, Hand has ordered you to report to the Sit Room for debriefing on Deathlok’s capabilities as soon as we reach the Hub. That physical you gave him in December is the most recent data we have on him. Bring everything you’ve got.”

“Yes, sir,” Jemma agrees. She stands. “I’ll go gather my things then, if there’s nothing else you need me for here…?”

“Go,” Coulson says.

Grant watches Jemma leave, a little suspicious. She looks _way_ too happy for a woman who’s about to be subjected to debriefing on something that happened four months ago. That debrief is going to be _brutal_ , going over the same ground over and over again to see whether she’s forgotten anything—not to mention, he’d expect her to be at least a little annoyed to be sentenced to remain at the Hub while the rest of them will, presumably, be leaving again as soon as they get a new lead.

She’s definitely up to something. Fitz apparently thinks so too, because he makes his excuses and follows her a moment later.

May gives them a little more detail on Deathlok’s attack—apparently he’s got a new weapon, some kind of arm-mounted explosive projectile—and then the briefing is dismissed.

“I want everyone ready to move at a moment’s notice,” Coulson warns before they can disperse. “If we get a lead on Nash, we’ll need to hit him hard and fast, before he has the chance to run again.”

With that in mind, Grant goes downstairs to speak to Jemma.

He finds her and Fitz in one of the storage closets. She’s loading up a bag with things from the drawers, and he watches for a moment with narrowed eyes. She puts in at least six vials of blood, and he’s pretty sure she didn’t take that much from Peterson, when he was here. Suddenly her enthusiasm for visiting the Hub makes a lot more sense.

“Jemma,” he says, making both of them jump. “Are you disobeying Coulson’s direct orders and taking Skye’s blood with you to the Hub?”

She looks at him for a long moment, obviously weighing her options, and then shrugs slightly.

“Yes,” she says plainly. “The Hub has better facilities than the Bus does. In the Hub’s labs, I can run a molecular—”

“Breakdown,” he completes. “I remember.”

She beams at him, pleased. “You were listening!”

“I always listen,” he says. It’s true. He doesn’t always _understand_ what she says (hardly ever does, actually), but he always listens.

Jemma’s smile softens, and Fitz makes a disgusted noise. Grant looks at him.

“Could you give us a minute?” he asks.

“Yeah, fine,” Fitz says. “I’ll just go—do that thing.”

He gives Jemma a significant look, and she returns it with what she probably thinks is a subtle nod. It’s really not; the two of them pretty much entirely fail at subterfuge. As Grant steps aside to let Fitz leave the closet, he debates asking what that was about.

As the landing warning chimes, he decides not to. It’s Jemma and Fitz; whatever they’re up to, it can’t be anything too bad.

“You wanted to speak to me?” Jemma asks.

“Wanted to say goodbye,” he informs her, walking further into the room to join her by the shelves. “If we get a hit on Nash, there won’t be time to come find you in the Hub, so…”

She takes a deep breath. “Of course. I suppose there isn’t much to say we didn’t say earlier, but…”

“I’ll be careful,” he promises. “You should be, too.”

“I’ll be at the Hub,” Jemma points out, brow furrowing. “What have I to fear?”

“Court-martial,” he says, tapping the table next to her bag for emphasis.

“Oh, right,” she says, a little sheepishly. “Coulson does appear to feel very strongly about this, doesn’t he?”

“That’s one word for it,” he mutters. Coulson’s being secretive to the point of paranoia about Skye’s blood, and he will _not_ be happy if he finds out that Jemma’s taking it into the Hub, even if she’s not going to let it out of her sight for a second—which he’s pretty sure she won’t.

“I’ll be cautious, too, then,” she says.

“Please do,” he says. “Although, if you _do_ get court-martialed…I hear private industry pays geniuses really well.”

“Private industry in which I would be safely employed in a lab?” she guesses. “Never to go into the field again?”

“That would just be a bonus,” he claims. “It’s the money you should go for.”

Jemma laughs under her breath.

“I’m impressed,” she says, stepping closer. “That’s only the second time this week you’ve made reference to me leaving the field.”

He sighs. “I know it’s hypocritical, when I’m in a lot more danger than you are. It’s just—”

“I know,” she interrupts. “You worry for me, and I’ve certainly given you cause, haven’t I?”

“I’ve given you just as much, if not more,” he points out.

“True,” Jemma agrees. “But let’s not start that again.”

She steps forward and hugs him tightly, although without the edge of desperation she had when he left with Trip earlier. The digression worked, then, and got her mind off of the danger Deathlok poses. Good.

“I’ll be fine,” he says into her hair.

“You had better,” she says. “And when you return, I want to hear what happened in San Diego.”

He leans down and kisses her, partially because he wants to but mostly to distract her, because she can _never_ know what happened in San Diego. She would undoubtedly tell Fitz and Skye, and he would never, ever hear the end of it.

She smiles against his mouth, and he has the feeling she’s guessed his motives. He’s definitely going to be hearing about this again.

He pulls back much sooner than he wants to, alerted by the sound of footsteps that someone is approaching. A second later, Trip appears in the doorway.

“Hey,” he says. “Ready to go?”

“Agent Triplett,” Jemma greets him, a little breathlessly. Grant tries not to feel too smug. “Are you staying at the Hub, as well?”

“Yeah, Garrett's keeping me here,” he says. “Help brief the teams on our most recent run-in with the cyber soldier.”

Jemma nods slowly.

“Don’t mind the company, do you?” Trip asks.

“No, not at all,” she says. It’s not entirely convincing, however, and Grant figures she’s worried about finding the privacy to run tests on Skye’s blood without being observed.

“Good,” Trip says. He looks at Grant. “Ward. Good luck finding the bastard.”

“Thanks,” Grant says. He shakes Trip’s hand. “Have fun at the Hub.”

“Yeah,” Trip sighs. “That’ll happen.”

“I’ll be out in a moment, Agent Triplett,” Jemma promises.

“Great,” he says. “I’ll wait in the cargo bay.”

Grant looks down at Jemma. Some of her hair has come loose from her ponytail (his fault; he can never resist the urge to run his fingers through it while he kisses her) and he tucks it behind her ear.

“I’ll be careful,” he promises again.

“As will I,” she replies. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Hopefully,” he agrees. “Good luck with that molecular breakdown.”

She grins, as he intended, and gets on her toes to kiss him again, lightning quick. Then, without another word, she grabs her bag and leaves the storage closet.

Left alone, he sighs and leans against the table. He doesn’t know whether or not it’s a good sign that Garrett’s leaving Trip at the Hub. They’ll undoubtedly be going after the Clairvoyant again soon—if, that is, Grant’s right about this mission being Garrett’s excuse to wrap things up with Centipede—and he doesn’t know what it means that Garrett doesn’t want Trip to be there when they do.

Well, he’ll find out soon enough, he’s sure. In the meantime, he’s going to go upstairs and change. When they _do_ get a hit on Nash, they’ll almost definitely be going full tactical this time, and he wants to be ready.

\---

It’s not long before they get a lead. Apparently Blake managed to get Deathlok with one of Fitz’s tag rounds, and Fitz and Skye trace the signal to an abandoned race-track in Pensacola, Florida. As Grant predicted, they’re going full tactical—and not alone, either. The Hub sends two back-up teams with them.

Fitz and Skye tag along, as well, in a SHIELD van set up as a field command center. Fitz will be accompanying them into the building with his golden retrievers (which is to say, the little flying lights that can track people—he always names his inventions such weird things), then he’ll go back to the van once Deathlok has been located.

Skye, much to her disgust, will be running back-end from the van the whole time. Grant assigns one of the men from the Hub to guard her—as far as he knows, Garrett’s only interest in her was getting her in critical condition to force Coulson into searching for TAHITI, but it’s the move he would make if he didn’t have inside information, so he does it anyway—and, though she protests, Coulson backs him up.

Garrett briefs their back-up on Deathlok’s capabilities, then sends them out. Grant steps up next to him as the men from the Hub approach the building. He hasn’t been able to catch a moment alone with Garrett since returning from Milton Keynes, and he has no idea what his SO’s play is, here. He can hardly ask directly, surrounded by SHIELD agents as they are, but he and Garrett have worked together for ten years, and they have their own sort of code.

“You ringing the bell or knocking?” he asks casually. To anyone listening, it’ll sound like he’s asking how Garrett wants to storm the building.

In reality, he’s asking whether things are going to plan. There’s no way Garrett could have predicted that Blake would hit Deathlok with one of the tag rounds, so this might be happening earlier than Garrett expected it to.

“Knocking, of course,” Garrett answers, just as casually.

That’s code for _improvisation is needed_. It means that things aren’t going exactly to plan (so he was right, this wasn’t supposed to happen yet), but they aren’t FUBAR yet, either.

Some more clarification would be nice, but there’s no time for it. They’ve reached the building, and it’s time to go in. He’ll just have to keep an eye out for any signals from Garrett.

Two of the men from the Hub set charges on the door, and, once it blows, four of them lead the way in. The rest of them file in behind them, and the room is quickly searched and declared clear. Coulson calls Fitz up, and he hurries forward, setting the case with the golden retrievers down on a nearby platform.

“Time to hunt, boys,” he mutters to himself as he deploys them. “Let’s find us a Deathlok.”

The golden retrievers fly up out of the case and then shoot off in different directions, disappearing quickly in the darkness.

“Impressive toy,” Garrett comments.

“I prefer the term high-tech hardware,” Fitz says, a little smugly, as he activates the tablet connected to the golden retrievers.

“Skye, you online?” Coulson asks.

“Hang on,” she says. “Northwest corridor is getting something. I’m pulling up a live feed.” There’s a pause. “I can’t confirm it’s him. Initiating multi-spectrum overlay.” After another pause, she inhales sharply. “What the hell did they do to him?”

It’s barely a whisper, obviously said mostly to herself, and Grant trades a concerned look with Fitz.

“What are you seeing?” Coulson asks.

“It’s not just his leg or his eye,” she says. “They _did_ stuff to him; it’s all under his skin.”

Fitz taps at his tablet and pronounces the signal dead. “Retriever’s down.”

“He knows we’re here,” May says.

Coulson orders Fitz back to the van, and he grabs his gear and leaves. The rest of them split up.

They’re all headed to the northwest corridor, of course, but it’s a big building and there are a lot of ways to get there. Each of them takes a few of the men from the Hub to serve as back-up, and they go their separate ways.

Grant ends up in a large, open space that might once have been a concession area (there’s a large counter and a few arcade games). He spots movement just in time, and looks up from the scope of his assault rifle to see Deathlok standing across the room, arm raised and pointing in his direction.

Remembering what May said about Deathlok’s new projectile weapon, he dives for cover, shouting for the men with him to do the same. He barely makes it; he hits the ground behind the counter just as the arcade games behind him explode.

He opens fire on Deathlok, squinting to see through the smoke, but the bullets glance off of him like nothing, and Deathlok just walks away.

“Ward?” Skye asks. “Are you okay?”

He looks around. Two of his back-up team aren’t moving.

“I got two men down,” he reports. His ears are ringing from the explosion, and he can’t quite judge his volume, but that’s hardly his biggest concern at the moment. “We need a med-team.”

“Requesting one now,” Skye says. “May, he’s coming your way.”

“Got him!” May shouts, and Grant pushes himself to his feet.

He’d like to continue pursuit of Deathlok, but protocol demands that he remain with the downed men until the med-team arrives. The rest of his back-up is mobile, but some of them are in bad shape, and he puts his field-med certification to good use as they wait for the med-team. He ignores the chatter over the comms as he does so, and only tunes back in when he hears his name.

“Ward,” Coulson barks. “Get down to the sub-basement, now.”

“On my way, sir,” he says. He ties off the makeshift bandage he’s been wrapping around one of the men’s bloody arm, then stands and heads for the sub-basement.

Luckily, he had time to memorize the race-track’s blueprints on the flight from the Hub, and it doesn’t take him long to make his way to the stairs. He finds May just starting down them, and falls into step behind her without a word.

“Where are we going, Skye?” May asks once they reach the bottom of the stairs.

“End of the hall,” Skye says quietly. She sounds shaken, and Grant and May exchange looks. “First right.”

They follow the directions, which lead them to yet another dark corridor. Halfway down it, there’s an open door spilling light out into the hallway, and Grant leads the way inside, assault rifle at the ready. He lowers it once he sweeps the room, though; the only occupant, aside from Garrett and Coulson, isn’t a threat.

It’s Nash. He’s in a wheelchair, wearing a hospital gown, and attached to countless monitors. There’s a steadily beeping heart monitor, some kind of tube taped to his mouth, and two displays with blinking cursors, one on either side of him.

Across from him are a dozen monitors, all displaying different video feeds.

“Forgive me if we don’t shake hands,” a mechanical voice says as Grant and May move further into the room. The words appear on the monitors as they’re spoken. “I don’t like to be touched.”

“Sir, we got a lot of wires back here,” one of their back-up announces.

“Don’t touch anything,” Coulson orders. “We need this room swept for explosives.”

“There are no traps here, Agent Coulson,” the mechanical voice says. “You’re here because we are destined to meet.”

Grant is watching Garrett; they make eye contact briefly, and then Garrett returns his attention to Nash. His fingers, however, tap briefly on his rifle in a pattern Grant recognizes. It’s code—code for _disregard orders_.

Disregard orders? Which orders?

Wait.

Oh, fuck.

Their orders are to bring the Clairvoyant in alive, and Nash is clearly being set up as the Clairvoyant. Grant knew there would be a fall guy, and was expecting for him to be dead upon discovery. Obviously Garrett wasn’t able to arrange that in time, thanks to Blake (damn him) tagging Deathlok with the tracking rounds. So, Garrett is ordering Grant to disregard the order to bring Nash in alive. He needs Nash dead, or it’s only a matter of time before someone discovers that Nash is just a decoy.

Which means Grant needs to cross Nash off, and that’s where he’s tripping up, because there’s no subtle way to do it. The golden retriever is circling the room, undoubtedly broadcasting video not only to Fitz and Skye in the van but also to the Hub. Grant has plenty of practice making deaths look accidental, but not while countless people are staring right at the target. Maybe if he had more time to prepare he could pull that off, but on ten seconds’ notice? Not so much.

He’s going to have to go blatant, and he’s going to have to do it quickly, before Coulson hands custody of Nash over to the men from the Hub, which he’s sure to do any minute, and he loses his chance.

In retrospect, his joking with Jemma is distinctly unfunny, because Grant is _definitely_ going to get court-martialed for this.

‘Nash’ is talking, and he adjusts his position and tunes back in. He needs _some_ kind of reason to give to the review board for disobeying orders and shooting an unarmed suspect in cold blood, or it will be obvious that he’s receiving orders from someone else. Garrett will have thought of that, of course; Grant’s sure ‘Nash’ will be giving him an excuse any second now.

“I will join Raina in your prison, Agent Coulson,” the mechanical voice is saying. “But I will see you wherever you go. Just as I saw you holding _Skye_ in your arms, bleeding…dying…knowing it was all your fault.”

And there it is.

He’s glad for the strange mood that came over him earlier and had him telling Skye that she was like a sister to him. It sets the stage quite nicely for this. So does that conversation with Trip, actually.

It’s obvious what track Garrett expects him to take: that he’s emotionally compromised. He’ll shoot Nash and claim that his emotions got the best of him, that his rage over Skye’s shooting (and near death) overcame his senses. He can blame the berserker staff, too—get himself deemed emotionally _and_ mentally compromised. That might mitigate his punishment, at least a little.

As to the rest of his punishment…well. Garrett will have a plan for that, of course. Hopefully one that _doesn’t_ end with Grant spending the next three to five years in a detention facility. They won’t put him in the Fridge, not for this, but the Fridge isn’t the only prison SHIELD has.

…What will Jemma think of this? She knows he’s killed people before, of course—he’s even done it in front of her, once or twice. But there’s a big difference between killing someone who’s attacking you and killing an unarmed, disabled man who poses no physical threat. Especially to someone like Jemma, who finds killing in general distasteful.

When she finds out that he’s killed Nash…

No. He can’t think of her. He has his orders, and his soulmate’s good opinion is not sufficient cause to disobey them. He steels himself and lowers his assault rifle, pulling out his sidearm.

‘Nash’ is still talking.

“No, it is the inevitable,” the mechanical voice claims. “A force beyond your comprehension is coming for you. You and _Skye_. She has something we want.”

This is it.

“And she will die,” the mechanical voice continues. “Giving it to us. I have seen it.”

Grant raises his sidearm as Coulson leans forward.

“Go to hell,” he hisses.

“No matter where I go,” the mechanical voice says. Now or never. “Or what you do to me, I will _always_ —”

Grant pulls the trigger. May’s got her gun on him in a fraction of a second, and he stays perfectly still, gun still raised. Coulson jerks back and turns to face him as the beeping of the heart monitor speeds up.

“What did you do?” he asks shakily.

_Followed orders_ , Grant doesn’t say. He doesn’t say anything at all, just lowers his gun silently. He can hear Skye and Fitz’s voices over the comms, but can’t quite make out their words over the buzzing in his ears.

He’s going to be court-martialed. He’s going to have to claim emotional and mental compromise, and even if they don’t toss him in a cell, he’ll be off active duty for the foreseeable future. He’ll be taken off Coulson’s team for sure, probably bumped down a few clearance levels.

Whatever happens next, he’s definitely sabotaged his career. He just hopes he hasn’t done the same to his relationship with Jemma.

He hands his gun to May as Nash flat-lines.

“He’s dead,” Garrett says hoarsely. “It’s over.”

Coulson checks Nash’s pulse, then pulls away. He never looks away from Grant—who, in turn, keeps his eyes locked on Nash’s body. He can feel Coulson’s glare burning into him, though. That’s reality. The other stare he feels, Jemma’s silent accusation, is probably just his imagination. He doesn’t even know if she’s watching; she might be taking advantage of what’s sure to be major distraction at the Hub to run those tests on Skye’s blood.

He hopes she is. He really, really hopes she didn’t just see him do that.

“Let’s go,” May says quietly.

He’s somewhat surprised that they don’t cuff him, but they seem satisfied by surrounding him with the men from the Hub. He hands over his other weapons (assault rifle, backup pistol, second backup, garrote wire, and—with reluctance—the switchblade Jemma gave him for his birthday. May hands the rest of it off to their back-up, but she tucks the switchblade away in her pocket with a solemn nod) and allows himself to be escorted out of the room and up the stairs.

He concentrates on taking deep breaths and ignoring the looks he’s getting from his escort. Garrett has a plan. He has to trust that Garrett has a plan. He won’t be left to rot.

Jemma…Jemma will understand. She has to. She can’t know the truth—that he was protecting Garrett—but she’ll understand that he was protecting Skye. She will.

He hopes.

\---

Back at the Bus, he’s escorted to the Cage and locked in. Then he’s left alone, to sit and think.

He really doesn’t want to think right now, though. All he can do is imagine what Jemma will think of what he just did, and those aren’t happy thoughts at all.

So he focuses on keeping his mind clear, counts every inhale and exhale. He counts to a thousand in every language he knows, forward and backward. Then he does it again.

He doesn’t look at his watch even once, so he doesn’t know much later it is that Skye enters the Cage, but it’s been at least a few hours. At first, when the door opens, he thinks it’s Coulson, coming to yell at him, and (for lack of anything better to say) he tells her so as she closes the door.

She doesn’t say anything, just holds out a bottle of water. He accepts it as she sits down at the table, then sits across from her.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

She shakes her head a little. “Why’d you do it?”

He looks down at the table, keeps his eyes on it as he considers how best to answer. He could consider this a test-run for the conversation with the review board, but it wouldn’t make this any easier. It suddenly occurs to him, as he sits here, that Skye is going to feel guilty about this. If he does his job right, she’s going to believe that he killed a man in cold blood on her behalf, and that’s definitely going to haunt her.

“I lost it,” he says finally. “I got angry.” He looks up at her. “He pushed all the right buttons.”

“Coulson said the mission was to _capture_ ,” she reminds him angrily. “Not to _kill_.”

Would it be best to display remorse right away? Or insist that what he did was right? He only has a split second to decide, and he chooses to go with both—to act like he’s trying to convince _himself_ that he did the right thing.

“Think about what the Clairvoyant said,” he says, leaning forward. “What he’s _done_. Think about the Centipede program. How he _experimented_ on innocent people like Mike Peterson. How he _kidnapped_ and _tortured_ Coulson. How he ordered Quinn to _shoot_ you.”

Skye is silent.

“And he wasn’t gonna stop, Skye,” he continues. “Not until you were…” He breaks off. Not for effect, although it does nicely, but because, surprisingly, he honestly just can’t say it. He can’t think of Skye dead—of _any_ of the team dead.

He really _is_ emotionally compromised, isn’t he?

“I wasn’t gonna let that happen,” he finishes.

“So what happens now?” Skye asks. She doesn’t sound angry anymore.

“I face a SHIELD review board,” he says. “Whatever the punishment, I’ll take it. I deserve it.” He looks away from her and shakes his head. “But I _don’t_ regret what I’ve done.”

“You don’t?” she asks doubtfully.

“No,” he says. “Not if it means you’re safe. You and…the rest of the team.”

“Simmons?” she asks.

He chuckles humorlessly and scrubs a hand over his mouth.

“You know,” he says. “When I first got this assignment—I hated it. The team thing, it’s not my speed. I’m a specialist. I work alone. I couldn’t see anything good coming from being put on a team.”

“And then you met Simmons,” she says.

“And then I met Jemma,” he agrees. “And caring about her—I mean, she’s my soulmate. I loved her the moment I met her, and that didn’t seem like such a big deal, because of _course_ I did. But then there was Fitz, and you, and—even May and Coulson, for crying out loud.”

He leans forward again.

“I meant what I said before,” he tells her. “You’re like the little sister I never had, Skye. I care about you—I care about this whole team. It’s my job to protect you— _all_ of you. So that’s what I did.”

Half of it’s just said to con her, to get her on his side and set the stage for his claims of being emotionally compromised (because security footage of this conversation will _absolutely_ be played at his hearing). But half of it is honesty, and that’s…not a good thing.

Skye doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that. She covers his clasped hands with hers for a moment, then draws back and stands. She starts to leave, but hesitates with her hand on the door.

“I don’t agree with what you did,” she says. “Even if Coulson’s orders weren’t…” She shakes her head. “He was unarmed and you killed him in cold blood, and that’s _not_ okay. But…”

She pauses for long enough that he thinks she’s not going to continue, then takes a deep breath.

“But I get why you did it,” she finally concludes. “So…thank you. Not for what you did, but for the intention behind it.”

He has no idea what to say to that, so he just nods. Skye nods back, then lets herself out.

Once again, he’s left alone with his thoughts. That’s not a good thing, either.

\---

It’s at least another hour before Coulson finally comes to see him, and Grant—who’s had plenty of time to practice what he’s going to say—starts speaking as soon as he walks into the Cage.

“Sir,” he says, leaning forward. “First off, I wanna say—”

“Save it,” Coulson interrupts sharply. “I don’t want your apologies; I don’t want your excuses.”

“I’m not making excuses,” Grant protests, shaking his head.

“The only thing I want to know,” Coulson says, loudly, over him. “Is whether you made the call yourself, or did someone order you to do it?”

That’s not good. It is, in fact, downright bad. Because the only person who could _order_ Grant to kill Nash would be an agent who was Level Eight or above. It’s exactly what happened, and the fact that Coulson’s asking means that he might be on track to the truth.

The whole point of this escapade was to wrap the Clairvoyant thing up. If it’s instead managed to lead Coulson to discovering that the Clairvoyant is a SHIELD agent…

He puts on a confused expression and sits back. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb, Agent Ward,” Coulson snaps. “Just answer the question.” Grant keeps shaking his head. “Did someone order you to kill the Clairvoyant?”

“No,” he says. “I acted alone, and I take full responsibility—”

“Save it,” Coulson says again.

They go back and forth for a while, Coulson getting progressively angrier as he demands again and again whether Grant was acting under orders. It makes Grant nervous, that Coulson is so certain, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he acts progressively angrier as well (building a case for not having control of the berserker staff rage), and he’s actually on his feet and shouting in Coulson’s face when Skye bursts in.

“What?” Coulson demands.

“We have a problem,” Skye says breathlessly.

She and Coulson both look at Grant, and then Coulson steps back.

“We’ll finish this later,” he warns, and leaves the Cage.

The door slams shut behind him, and Grant sits back down. That was…weird. He wonders what the problem is, and whether it has anything to do with Centipede or the Clairvoyant. Maybe Deathlok’s popped up again?

Even if it’s unrelated, it’s not likely to get him let out of the Cage anytime soon, so there’s nothing he can do. Nothing except sit here and wonder.

(And be thankful that Jemma is at the Hub; whatever this new _problem_ is, Jemma’s safely away from it. So at least there’s that.)

Less than five minutes after Coulson and Skye leave, the Bus suddenly jerks. Grant is thrown out of his chair, manages to catch his balance, and then barely avoids being knocked off his feet as the Bus rapidly changes direction.

What the hell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm sorry this took so long. I'll try to get the next chapter out quicker, but, as you know, it's pretty pivotal! So I don't want to rush it. We'll just see how it goes.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	17. Turn, Turn, Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of the shadows, into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thanks so much for all of the comments and kudos.
> 
> Second, let me take this opportunity to reiterate (and add to) some earlier **warnings** : strong language (lots of it), violence (lots of that, too), and minor elements of self harm are present in this chapter.
> 
> Third...I think I'll save the rest of my note for the end.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Less than five minutes after the Bus’ sudden change in direction, the door opens again. It’s Coulson and Fitz, but they’re not here to explain what’s going on.

They’re here to deposit an unconscious and handcuffed May.

“What happened?” Grant asks.

“She’s a sleeper,” Coulson says, as he and Fitz set May down near the wall. He stands and hesitates. “I mean, the other kind of sleeper.”

“Wait,” he says. Coulson can’t possibly mean what Grant thinks he means. “What are you saying?”

“She’s been reporting on us this whole time,” Coulson says, and then follows Fitz out of the Cage, closing the door behind him.

Okay. Well. He can’t say he saw that coming.

Reporting on them to whom, though? It can’t be HYDRA; he’d know. Not to mention, while the analysis performed before he started this assignment put her at a higher chance of turning than Jemma, it was still fairly low. As far as HYDRA’s concerned, Melinda May is far too loyal to Phil Coulson—and, through him, SHIELD—to ever be a viable candidate for turning.

Of course, the whole _sleeper_ thing brings that into question, doesn’t it? If she’s been reporting on Coulson, it’s possible she’s not as loyal as everyone (including HYDRA) thought. Could she have been faking? She and Coulson have been tight for decades. And while it’s definitely possible for a woman of her talents to play the long game…what would be the point?

There’s no way to know. All he can do is wait for her to wake up. Not that she’s likely to just come out and tell him her loyalties, but she at least might be willing to fill him in on what the hell is happening. And while they discuss that, he’ll see if he can discern anything about her true loyalties.

It’s not _incredibly_ likely—she’s got the same training he does—but there’s a reason that when it comes to espionage, people say he’s the best since Romanoff. He’s got a talent for making connections from the smallest details.

But that’s for later. Right now, all he can do is wait for May to regain consciousness.

\---

It takes nearly an hour. Grant uses that time to consider how he should play this. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about May reporting on them; one the on hand, his instinctive reaction is betrayal. On the other…well, it’s not like he has any room to judge, is it?

However, he can’t exactly tell May that he understands where she’s coming from. So, regardless of his own feelings on the topic (whatever they may be), anger is the way to go.

Which is why, when May finally stirs, Grant is waiting with his arms crossed.

“Coulson said you’re an informant,” he bites out as she examines the handcuffs she’s wearing. “Want to elaborate on that?”

“No,” she grunts, pushing herself up. “I don’t.” She slumps back against the wall. “Damn ICER. My head’s killing me.”

He presses a little more, but she insists that she can’t say any more until she gets the go-ahead from Fury. Which is telling in and of itself.

He probably should have guessed, really. Assuming that her loyalty to Coulson is _not_ a con (which he can’t entirely rule out, yet), the only person who could possibly get away with asking her to betray him would be Fury.

And it would be just like Fury to plant someone to spy on someone who is, arguably, one of the closest things he has to a friend, wouldn’t it? Paranoid old bastard. He wouldn’t couch it in those terms, of course: not spying, not betraying, possibly not even reporting. He’d have to find a way to convince May that making reports to him was the best thing for _Coulson_ , or she would have told him to go fuck himself, chain of command be damned.

He can’t be sure that that’s what happened, can’t rule out that May actually is a traitor, but…it’s the most likely scenario. As far as she’s concerned, he thinks, she’s just watching Coulson’s back. As always.

Grant draws out the pretense of being angry and betrayed, not wanting to give away his understanding too early, and it’s not really a surprise when she turns it around on him.

“You know,” he says. “You always said to keep my emotions in check, but _this_ is some next-level—”

“You should have listened,” she interrupts. “You killed a man in _cold blood_ …let your emotions get the best of you.”

“It was to _protect our team_ from a monster!”

He immediately regrets his words—a monster, really? A little dramatic, there—but May doesn’t seem to find anything wrong with them. Well, not the part he’s concerned with at least.

“It was to protect _her_ ,” she instantly snaps back. Before he can point out that he’s hardly the first member of the team to overreact to Skye being in danger, May leans in and lowers her voice. “Which would be okay, if you hadn’t shot the wrong guy.”

Shit. They know. He was afraid of that, when Coulson was in here earlier asking whether he was acting under orders, but May’s tone is definite. It’s not a theory, now; they’re _positive_ that Nash wasn’t the Clairvoyant.

He draws back a little, projecting confusion, but before he can question her (and find out _how much_ they know), the door opens.

It’s Coulson.

“Fitz repaired your direct line,” he says to May. “If you have the ability to make this right, now’s the time. ‘Cause you can’t make it worse.”

Well. That’s…concerning.

“On your feet,” Coulson orders. May stands.

“Sir,” Grant starts.

“You, too,” Coulson snaps. “Get to the kitchen, Garrett will fill you in.”

Garrett? What the hell is he doing back here?

Well, at least Coulson leaving Garrett to fill him in suggests that he still trusts him. That’s good. He follows them out of the Cage and then heads to the kitchen as they make their way to the cockpit.

The Bus is landing as he crosses the lounge, which is _not_ a good sign. After all, May and Coulson haven’t reached the cockpit yet, and he can see that Garrett, Fitz, and Skye are all gathered around the kitchen table. Which means that, unless Garrett’s not their only unexpected visitor, no one is in the cockpit. Which means that the Bus is being controlled remotely. And _that_ cannot possibly be a good thing.

Neither is the fact that someone _definitely_ just shot out their weapons. Seriously, what the fuck?

“Sir,” Grant asks Garrett as he reaches the kitchen. “ _What_ is going on?”

“A whole lot,” Garrett says.

“Who is _shooting_ at us?” he asks, because that’s always the most important question.

“C’mere, let me catch you up,” Garrett says, and draws him aside. “Apparently Agent _Hand_ is the Clairvoyant. So chew on that first.”

He breathes out. Okay, so. Garrett’s not under suspicion. That’s good. Hand _is_ under suspicion. That’s…weird.

“Hand, sir?” he asks finally. “I mean, I know she’s a little…”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Garrett agrees when he trails off. “But she sent two drones after me. If I hadn’t come across your plane I’d be dead right now.”

“ _What_?”

It’s one thing to pin suspicion on Victoria Hand. He hates her and if they can convince SHIELD that she’s the Clairvoyant and get her locked up, he’ll throw a fucking party. But it would _have_ to be a frame job, because, as far as he knows, Hand’s as loyal as they come. Why would she be sending drones after Garrett? Does she suspect him?

“Coulson saved my ass,” Garrett says. “Which he was only in a position to do because Hand was tractoring your team to the Hub.”

Okay, so that’s one question answered. They’re at the Hub, and the sudden change in direction earlier must have been the tractor beam locking on. The question is, why? He voices it, and Garrett’s face goes grim.

“That’s the real kicker,” he says. “And I’m gonna need you to stay calm, son.”

That’s…not an encouraging start. “Sir?”

“Your friend Skye tried to access SHIELD communications to find out what was going on,” Garrett says. “All she found was an encoded transmission being broadcast across every SHIELD communications channel. When she decrypted it…” He puts a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “It’s HYDRA.”

It’s only a decade’s worth of training that prevents Grant from swearing aloud. HYDRA? Really? What the fuck is _that_ about?

HYDRA’s been undercover within SHIELD since its defeat at the end of World War II. If they’ve suddenly been activated—and the activation code is the only thing that would be broadcast that blatantly—that means something’s happened. Something big.

He’s aware of Fitz and Skye watching, so he furrows his brow and shakes his head. “HYDRA, sir? But HYDRA was defeated—”

“Apparently not so much,” Garrett shrugs. “Looks like they’ve been hiding in SHIELD since its founding. But that’s not our biggest problem.”

“There’s more?” he asks flatly.

As he says it, it occurs to him that this doesn’t explain anything. Hand is with SHIELD. He’s almost completely positive about that. He doesn’t know _every_ member of HYDRA, of course—HYDRA, in its way, is even more obsessed with compartmentalization than SHIELD is—but he’d know if Hand was one of them. Wouldn’t he?

“Hand is the Clairvoyant,” Garrett says. “If she’s acting openly, now that HYDRA is in the light, it means she’s probably working for them. And if she was able to tractor us all the way to the Hub without being interrupted, it means…”

It means that HYDRA is in control of the Hub. Or, since he’s still pretty sure Hand isn’t HYDRA, at the very least, someone who obviously thinks that they’re the enemy is in control of the Hub. Grant has to bite the inside of his cheek, _hard_ , to force his rage aside, because it’s suddenly front and center—for very good reason.

“Jemma’s at the Hub,” he says.

“I know, son,” Garrett says, and squeezes his shoulder. “So is Trip. You know he’ll have her back.”

Right. Right, of course. He knows Trip isn’t HYDRA; he’s a legacy, for crying out loud, he’s SHIELD down to the bone. That alone would be enough to have him watching Jemma’s back, if the fact that she’s Grant’s soulmate wasn’t enough. Which it will be.

Trip will protect Jemma. Of course he will.

He tries to calm himself, to set the rage aside the way May taught him. But he can’t, because trusting his soulmate’s safety to someone else is difficult at the best of times. And this is definitely _not_ the best of times.

Grant and Garrett have kept themselves distanced from HYDRA, a little. Garrett’s focus has always been on the Centipede/Deathlok project, and Grant hasn’t been subtle about the fact that his first loyalty is to Garrett. All of a sudden, that seems like a really fucking stupid idea, because it means that Grant doesn’t have much influence in HYDRA. Certainly not enough for any of the HYDRA agents stationed at the Hub to go out of their way to avoid hurting his soulmate.

Jemma’s not only in danger from HYDRA, either. Whatever’s happening at the Hub right now, there’s sure to be chaos. Being loyal to SHIELD might not be enough to save her from overzealous SHIELD agents looking to root out all of the traitors. And there’s always friendly fire to worry about, too.

Jemma’s in danger from all sides. She has no way of protecting herself. And he’s currently cornered on the Bus with one good specialist, one excellent specialist who’s not likely to be let out of her cuffs anytime soon, one very rusty field agent, one rookie field agent, and Fitz.

He swears, because he can’t hold it back any longer, and Garrett squeezes his shoulder again. The rage is still building in his chest and, combined with the panic crawling up his throat, means that he’s very much on edge.

It saves his life.

Call it instinct, or premonition, or what the fuck ever, but when the first shot rings out he’s already moving. He dives for cover, taking Skye—as the closest civilian, so to speak (Garrett can handle himself)—with him. They huddle under the table, along with Fitz, as the Bus is riddled with bullets from outside.

Grant looks to Garrett, who’s sheltering in the bench seat on the other side of the table.

“Storage area’s got better shielding,” he says. “And munitions.”

Garrett nods once, sharply. “Lead the way.”

“Stay down,” Grant orders Fitz and Skye. “Follow me.”

He belly-crawls to the ladder that leads down to the storage area. It’s a risk, no doubt, leaving their cover to get closer to the wall, but so is staying up here. At least in the storage area they’ll be able to formulate a plan without worrying about being shot.

The fact that the people outside—whether they’re SHIELD or HYDRA—are open firing like this, without even attempting to make contact, doesn’t bode well for Jemma. He knows that. It’s right there in the front of his mind as he goes down the ladder and waits for the others to follow.

He can’t put it aside. He’s just not capable of that. Pure, unadulterated fury is racing through him, along with a panic he can’t hope to suppress. He can’t put it aside.

But he can’t dwell on it, either.

If he wants to help Jemma, the first thing he needs to do is get off the Bus. He needs to be at least a little calm in order to make a plan to do that. So, as first Skye, then Fitz, then Garrett descend the ladder, he focuses on _using_ the rage. It can be fuel, he knows, and it’s going to have to be. It’s the only way to stay on top of it.

The last time he used the rage as fuel was in that monastery in Ireland, against the members of that hate group that were after the berserker staff. He still doesn’t remember what happened that night, how he defeated all of them single-handedly.

But that was months ago, less than a day after he was initially exposed to the berserker staff. He has control, now. He’s on top of it. He can use it and retain his mind at the same time. He _can_.

For Jemma.

May and Coulson follow after Garrett, and May’s favoring one arm.

“You hit?” Grant asks.

“Not our biggest problem,” she says. “Fury’s dead.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Grant, for his part, is skeptical. Fury wouldn’t go down easy, and the timing is suspect. It’s possible he’s just in hiding.

Of course, HYDRA’s out of the shadows, so who the hell knows?

“I’m gonna see to May’s arm,” Coulson says before any of them can recover. “The rest of you, head to the munitions closet. They’ve got guns. We’re gonna need bigger ones.”

Seeing that Skye and Fitz are about to protest, Grant nods sharply. “Understood.”

They head deeper into the storage area, away from the ladder. On the way, they pass one of the supply closets, and Grant ducks in to grab a spare tac vest. His is…well, who knows; he had to hand it over when he was taken into custody at the race-track. It might still be there, it might be upstairs, it might be in an evidence locker somewhere. No point in worrying about it now.

Garrett and Coulson both turn down tac vests of their own, so they continue on their way. May and Coulson split off for a med-pod, while the rest of them continue on to the munitions closet. Once they reach it, Fitz and Skye get to work digging through the lockers while Grant and Garrett stand back.

Grant’s blood is still boiling, and he tries to distract himself by asking Garrett about Fury.

“Man was my SO,” Garrett says. “Coulson’s, too. Proved himself more than once to be a hard man to kill.” He looks up as the gunfire, which had briefly halted, resumes. “That sound outside doesn’t bode well, though.”

All of which is to say Garrett doesn’t have any more of an idea what’s going on than Grant does. That’s…really not comforting.

Garrett steps past him and takes a look at the munitions locker. “Is there anything on this plane you don’t want them to get their hands on?”

Grant exchanges a look with Skye. Yeah, you could definitely say that.

“Pretty much everything,” Skye says, zipping up the duffle bag she’s been filling.

Garrett looks to Grant. “Your team, son.”

Whatever’s happening with HYDRA right now, Grant is still undercover. Which means he needs to think like a loyal SHIELD agent, not a plant. So…what does the SHIELD agent think? Protect their advantage. They need to keep the information—weapons specs, classified intel, and more—that they’ve gathered over the past six months out of enemy hands.

They need to protect the advantage they’ve got and then gain more ground. Currently, they’re cornered on the Bus. The enemy will be attempting to seize it—it’s a valuable asset. First, they need to get into a position to stop the enemy from gaining control of the Bus, or at least delay their progress. Then, they need to find a way off of the Bus. Then, they need to cross off _everyone_ who stands between the team and Jemma. After that, they’ll need an exit route.

First things first.

“Right,” he says. “Fitz, cut the hydraulics on the cargo ramp. Once they give up on firing, a surgical strike team is next. We’ll need to slow them down.”

Fitz nods sharply.

“After you finish that, come back here and work with Agent Garrett to devise a plan to buy us some time. Cutting the hydraulics won’t slow the strike team for long, and we’re gonna need every second we can get.”

“On it,” Fitz agrees, and takes off down the hall.

“Skye, go to the lab,” Grant continues. “Wipe the system. We can’t let HYDRA get its hands on our intel.”

“Agreed,” Skye says. “But we’ve got a _lot_ of data. It won’t be quick.”

“We’ll buy you time,” Garrett promises. “Already got some ideas on that.”

Skye nods and follows Fitz, leaving Grant alone with Garrett.

“I need to fill in May and Coulson,” Grant says, moving to the munitions locker. He arms himself quickly, making a mental note to get his knife back from May, while Garrett just stands back and watches.

“You all right, son?” Garrett asks after a long minute.

Grant stops, one hand on the door to the munitions locker. The concern in Garrett’s voice shakes him a little, and his control cracks. He slams his fist against the locker, hard, and uses the accompanying flash of pain to steady himself.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Garrett says blandly.

“Whatever happens next,” Grant says quietly. “SHIELD’s finished, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t see how it could be anything but. HYDRA goes all the way to the top—all the way to Pierce—and even if the loyal SHIELD agents manage to mount a resistance, they’re entirely unprepared for this. HYDRA knew there was always a possibility this day would come—hence the pre-arranged activation code, even though they never intended to actually _use_ it—and is in a much better position to act than SHIELD is. Even if SHIELD manages to win in the end, the only possible victory is a Pyrrhic one. SHIELD is done.

Garrett nods, ever so slightly. “Yeah. It is.”

“SHIELD is falling as we speak,” Grant says, and turns to fully face Garrett. “If Jemma comes out of this with so much as a _scratch_? HYDRA’s next.”

“Understood,” Garrett says seriously, and claps Grant on the shoulder. “And you know I’ll be right there with you, son.”

“Thank you, sir,” he says, just as Fitz turns the corner.

“Hydraulics are cut,” he reports. “And I’ve got some ideas on slowing them down.”

He’s looking a little frantic around the eyes, so Grant hesitates before heading for the med-pod.

“Jemma’s going to be fine,” he tells Fitz. “She’s smart, she’s resourceful, and she’s got Trip to watch her back.”

“And you trust him?” Fitz demands. “How do you know he’s not HYDRA?”

“I trust him,” he nods. “Whether he’s HYDRA or not—and I really doubt he’s HYDRA—I trust him to have my back on this.”

“Even if he’s HYDRA?” Fitz snaps. “Why would he protect Jemma if he’s a bloody traitor?”

“Let’s just say he owes me one,” Grant says, and, after clapping Fitz on the shoulder, leaves to fill in May and Coulson.

\---

By the time Grant, May, and Coulson reach the lab, the firing has stopped entirely. A surgical strike team is next, and Grant hopes Garrett and Fitz can come up with something to slow them down, or they’re all screwed.

(A part of him is hoping the plan will be to lie in wait and cross off the entire strike team; he’s got plenty of rage to work off, and just because he’s got a handle on it for the moment doesn’t mean he wouldn’t gladly break a hundred necks right now.)

It takes a while to convince Coulson of the merits of their plan to clean the Bus’ system. He’s distracted, still steaming over what he sees as May’s betrayal, and it takes all of Grant’s tenuous control not to tell him to get the fuck over it. Regardless of what May’s done, they’re all on the same side here—at least as far as Coulson knows—and Coulson’s hurt feelings are the least of their problems.

Jemma’s somewhere in the Hub. Her life is in danger. Right now, she’s Grant’s only priority, and the evidence that Coulson doesn’t feel the same is enough to have his hand twitching for his sidearm. He stays focused, though, and finally hits upon the one thing that will convince Coulson of the necessity of wiping out their files.

“The drug from TAHITI, sir,” he says with quiet emphasis. Then he continues in a normal tone. “All here. If HYDRA is really about to seize this plane…”

“We should wipe the system,” Coulson completes.

Grant barely keeps from rolling his eyes. Finally, they’re on the same page.

“I’m backing it up on this hard drive to keep our edge,” Skye tells him, nodding to the external hard drive she has plugged into her laptop. It’s maybe a little ironic that it bears the SHIELD logo, considering the circumstances, but it was probably all she could find.

“ _Then_ do it,” Coulson orders. “Scrub the plane clean.”

“It’ll take some time,” Skye warns.

Garrett and Fitz are passing through the lab, headed for the cargo bay, and Garrett tells her they’re working on it. If the way the duffle bags they’re carrying are bulging is any indication, they’ve cleared out the munitions closet entirely.

Grant’s pretty sure they’ve got this.

Of course, this leaves him with absolutely nothing to do except worry about Jemma.

Hoping to distract himself, he looks to May. “What did you do with my knife?”

With a little difficulty—since she’s still cuffed—she draws it out of her pocket and hands it to him. It settles him, a little, to have it. Which is ridiculous—it’s a switchblade, not a security blanket, and he’s a grown man, for crying out loud—but he’s grateful for it nonetheless.

“Thanks,” he says, and slips it into his pocket.

“So,” Skye says without pausing in her typing. “Do we have a plan?”

“For what?” Coulson asks.

“Getting off the plane?” she suggests. “Finding Simmons? Getting out of the Hub _with_ Simmons? Or, my personal favorite, all of the above?”

Finally, something he can do.

“The Bus is surrounded,” he says. “We’ll need to cause some kind of distraction before we can leave.”

“Got that covered,” Garrett volunteers, as he and Fitz reenter the lab.

“We’ve planted explosives in the cargo bay,” Fitz explains. “Motion-activated. As soon as they get up the ramp…” He makes a little ‘boom’ motion with his hands. “Down they go.”

Coulson sighs a little. “I hope this HYDRA thing doesn’t mess up our insurance.”

“Okay, but if there are explosives in the cargo bay, how do we get off the Bus?” Skye asks. “It’s not like we have escape pods.” She pauses. “Do we? Because that would be really cool.”

“No,” May says flatly. “We don’t.” She shakes her head. “There are plenty of emergency exits—”

“I know,” Skye interjects. “I read the safety pamphlet.”

“But none of them are particularly subtle,” May finishes, ignoring her. “An explosion in the cargo bay won’t be enough to keep them from noticing us.”

“The floor,” Fitz says, snapping his fingers. “If we go out through the bottom of the Bus, we can sneak below the wing to the door on the west wall. They won’t be watching the ground.”

“It could work,” Garrett agrees, tapping his fingers on the table. “But last I checked, there are no emergency exits through the bottom of the plane. Are there?”

“No,” Fitz says. “There aren’t. So we _make_ one.”

Oh. Grant sees exactly where he’s going with this.

“Mousehole?” he asks.

“Mousehole,” Fitz agrees.

“What, we have mice now?” Skye asks, looking between them.

“No, it’s-it’s an invention I,” Fitz pauses. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got the escape covered. What’s the plan for finding Jemma?”

“If you’re sure?” Coulson asks.

“It’ll work,” Grant promises, remembering the invention in question. It’s a concentrated laser, capable of cutting through just about anything. Jemma gave him one of those for his birthday, too, and he had some fun testing it out. It’ll cut through the plane, no problem.

“Okay, good,” Coulson says. “Then here’s how we play it inside. Two teams: one goes to the nerve center to disable HYDRA’s systems—especially their control of the Bus, which gives us our escape route. The other team finds Simmons and gets her, and hopefully Agent Triplett, back to the Bus.”

“Okay,” Garrett says. “Any preference on teams?”

“Yeah,” Coulson says. “We’ll need Skye to be on the team that goes to the nerve center. HYDRA’s gonna have some serious protection on their systems, and Skye’s the only one with the skills to break it.”

Grant nods, mostly to himself. It makes sense. Who to send with her, though? A two-man team is probably best—they’ll need to pass as unnoticed as they can, and the fewer people on the team, the easier that will be. May, maybe? But maybe not—Coulson’s trust in her is entirely broken, as evidenced by the fact that she’s still wearing the cuffs, and he won’t want to send his favorite off with a specialist he doesn’t trust. Garrett, then, or Coulson himself.

“And,” Coulson adds. “Ward will be going with her.”

_What_.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Grant says, deliberately calm. “I must have misheard you.”

“I said, you’ll be going with her,” Coulson repeats. “Skye’s still a rookie. She’ll need someone to watch her back.”

Grant is so stunned by the sheer _gall_ that he’s not even angry—well, no more than he’s been since he realized the danger Jemma was in. Exactly what is Coulson _on_?

“If you honestly expect me to go _anywhere_ but straight to Jemma—”

“Most of the agents in the Hub are following orders,” Coulson interrupts. “They aren’t HYDRA. Which means we’re taking the ICERs for this one. We want to incapacitate, not kill. I can’t trust you to do that.”

“I can follow orders,” Grant snaps, and there’s the anger. “…Sir.”

“Ward,” Coulson says sharply. “Yesterday, you disobeyed orders and shot an unarmed man in cold blood in response to a _verbal_ threat against Skye.” He leans across the table. “Do you really expect me to trust you to follow orders when Simmons’ life is _actually_ in danger?”

God damn it. Of course that would come back to bite him. Of all the times this could have happened, it _had_ to be the day after Garrett tried to wrap things up with Centipede. Fucking typical.

It’s not like he can say he _was_ following orders when he shot Nash. But there is no fucking way he’s going to play bodyguard to Skye while Jemma’s in danger. It’s not happening. And damn straight he won’t be incapacitating—he doesn’t know what exactly has given Coulson the impression that not all of the agents outside are HYDRA, but as far as Grant’s concerned, it doesn’t matter.

HYDRA or SHIELD, SHIELD or HYDRA; anyone who stands between Grant and Jemma is the enemy, full stop, and he will _absolutely_ be crossing them off—with extreme prejudice.

“I know what happened yesterday, sir,” he says, careful to keep his voice even. No matter how much he’d like to tell Coulson to go fuck himself, it would only be counterproductive at this point. “But I can’t just—”

“We’ll get Simmons,” Coulson interrupts. “Trust me to have her back, Ward. And if you don’t trust me, trust Garrett.”

“We’ll take care of her, son,” Garrett agrees, resting a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “She won’t get so much as a scratch on our watch, you can count on that.”

“Sir—”

“Do you trust us?” Coulson interrupts again. “Yes or no?”

Coulson’s been secretive and paranoid lately. Ever since he nearly died at the Guest House, he’s been acting oddly. Actually, he was acting oddly before the Guest House, too, just in a different way. He’s emotionally compromised—over what he sees as May’s betrayal, over HYDRA’s survival, and over whatever he saw at the Guest House. Frankly, Grant wouldn’t trust him with the grocery shopping, let alone something as important as Jemma’s life. (And he hasn’t forgotten what happened the _last_ time he was asked to trust Jemma’s safety to Coulson, either.)

But Garrett…

Garrett is the closest thing he’s got to a father. He’s had Grant’s back a thousand times over the years, saved his life just as often as Grant has saved his. Garrett pulled him out of hell and gave him a life, a purpose. Until very recently, Garrett was one of only two people Grant ever trusted to have at his back.

He trusts Garrett. He doesn’t trust Coulson, but he trusts Garrett.

And the longer they spend arguing about this, the longer Jemma’s out in the Hub, alone and in danger. They _hope_ that Trip is with her, but there’s no way to know. She might be injured. She might have been captured.

She can’t be dead. He won’t even think that. But every second they waste here on the Bus brings her closer to it.

He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. I’m with Skye.”

“Good man,” Garrett says, and squeezes his shoulder. He glances out at the cargo bay. “It’s been quiet out there for a while. Whatever this escape idea is, you better get it going. I have a feeling our distraction is gonna get sprung soon.”

“Right,” Grant agrees. “Fitz, you wanna handle that?”

“Yeah,” Fitz says, obviously thankful for something to do. “I’ll take care of it. Outside of storage 2B, do you think?”

He takes a moment to visualize the Bus’ positioning in regards to the door they need to exit through, then nods. “Good idea.”

“Great,” Fitz says, pushing away from the table. “I’ll get it done.”

“In the meantime,” Coulson says as Fitz leaves. “The rest of us will suit up.”

“Suit up?” Skye asks, detaching the hard drive from the laptop. “Done, by the way.”

“We’re leading with ICERs,” Coulson reiterates, with a pointed glare at Grant. “But we still want conventional weapons, just in case. Let’s go.”

“Just gotta nuke the system first,” Skye says. She taps at the keyboard for a few seconds, then takes a deep breath. “Okay, it’s started. It’ll take a few minutes to work, though. Nothing I can do about that.”

“Let’s hope we’ve got a few minutes, then,” Coulson mutters, checking his watch. “Come on. John, did you and Fitz leave _anything_ in the munitions closet?”

“Oh,” Garrett says airily. “A toy or two.”

“Let’s go, then.”

\---

Grant’s already mostly set. He grabs an ICER, then joins Fitz in the hallway outside of storage 2B to wait. Fitz has pulled the metal grating off the ground and is cutting through the belly of the plane.

“Good thinking,” Grant says. “If we put that grating back on when we leave, they might not notice the hole.”

“Keep them searching the Bus for us instead of the Hub,” Fitz nods. “Every minute counts, right?”

“Right,” he agrees.

There’s not enough space for the two of them to work, even if he did have his Mousehole handy—which he doesn’t; it was in his tac vest, and he still doesn’t know where that is—so all he can do is stand back and watch.

He doesn’t do well with inactivity at the best of times, and this is _not_ the best of times. He can’t stop himself from imagining everything that might be happening to Jemma while he stands here uselessly. She’s loyal to SHIELD, so if she ends up with Hand, she’ll be okay—if Hand is smart enough to realize that Jemma is loyal, that is. There’s no guarantee of that.

Still, better Hand than HYDRA. Grant’s got no illusions about the people he (technically) works for. HYDRA has it on file that Jemma’s got less than half a percent chance of willingly turning. That won’t matter, though—Jemma’s brilliant enough that HYDRA will make the effort to turn her anyway. When she turns them down (as she unquestionably will; Jemma’s morals are too strong for her to compromise them by working for HYDRA, even to save her own life), they’ll move on to _forcing_ her cooperation.

If HYDRA agents get their hands on Jemma, they’ll tear her apart. At which point he’ll be forced to tear _them_ apart. If she has so much as a _hair_ out of place when Garrett finds her, Grant’s going to annihilate HYDRA from the top down, ostensive loyalties be damned.

It’s not like they even need HYDRA anymore, anyway. They’ve got the GH-325, and in the month since she was injected with it, Skye has shown no signs of negative side effects. Garrett’s life will be saved as soon as he takes the GH-325. HYDRA has served its purpose.

If Jemma’s alright, he’ll call it even and leave HYDRA be. If she’s injured, though…

If she’s been tortured, or threatened, or harmed in any way at all…

“She’ll be okay,” Fitz says.

Drawn out of his thoughts, he looks down to see that Fitz has finished cutting through the plane. There’s a good-sized hole beneath the walkway, big enough for them to fit through one-by-one. He also realizes that at some point, he took the switchblade out of his pocket and has been fiddling with it—which is probably how Fitz knew what he was thinking.

Not that it would be terribly hard to guess at the moment, he admits to himself as he tucks the switchblade away again.

“Yeah,” he agrees, since Fitz looks just as in need of reassurance as Grant feels. “Of course she will.”

“She’s smart,” Fitz continues, looking down at his hands. “She’s a genius. Probably holed up somewhere having a cuppa while she waits for us.”

“Right.”

“She’ll be angry it’s taking so long. Have you ever heard her lecture about punctuality?”

“No,” he says, watching as Fitz toys with the grating. “Can’t say I have.”

“It’s the worst,” Fitz mutters. “Like she’s never been late for anything. You miss _one_ pointless orientation and she never lets you…”

He falters, and Grant watches as his hands tighten around the grating until his knuckles are white.

“She’ll be okay,” Fitz repeats, mostly to himself.

Grant nods firmly. “She will.”

She has to be. There’s no other option.

Fitz looks like he’s about to say something more, but he doesn’t get the chance, as the rest of the team approaches from the end of the hall.

“We heard them setting charges on the ramp,” Skye reports, coming to a stop next to Fitz. She’s wearing a tac vest, but combined with the way her hair’s pulled back and the backpack she’s sporting, she looks more like a kid playing dress-up than a field agent.

That may just be his cynicism talking, though. He’s heard that SOs never stop seeing their trainees as rookies. And Skye really is a rookie—this is only her second day as an agent.

Here’s hoping it’s not her last.

“Any second now,” Coulson says. He’s ditched his suit jacket in favor of a bulletproof vest, which, although certainly a reasonable precaution, is kind of a weird look on him.

“Here,” Garrett adds, handing Fitz a backpack and a vest. “Got some goodies for ya.”

Fitz blinks, obviously taken aback. “Erm, thanks.”

He stands to put on the vest (bulletproof, not tac) and sling the backpack over his shoulder. He’s just readjusting the straps when there’s a distant thump: the cargo ramp hitting the ground.

“Show time,” Coulson says and, as an explosion echoes through the Bus, motions Garrett to lead the way out of the plane.

\---

They get out of the hangar in one piece. It’s not difficult; apparently the agents outside the Bus weren’t expecting any resistance, because the explosion in the cargo bay leaves complete chaos in its wake. It’s easy enough for the team to slip under the wing, through the shadows, and to the west wall. They pass through the door and into the main base without raising a single flag.

Of course, that was the easy part.

They’re all on guard as they make their way through the hallways. Garrett—whether in hopes of calming the visibly nervous Fitz or because he’s honestly curious—asks about the Mousehole, and Fitz is happy to fill him in as they approach the hallway intersection where they’ll have to go their separate ways.

Grant, honestly, could use a distraction of his own, and he focuses in on Skye.

“You got the hard drive?” he asks.

“Yep,” she says, patting her pocket.

“You want me to carry it?” he offers. “Just in case?”

She hesitates for a long moment, and Grant, taking it as a no, returns his attention to scanning their surroundings for any sign of enemy movement. He’s surprised when, a moment later, she nudges his arm with the hard drive.

“You’re right,” she says as he takes it. “The hard drive’s safer in your hands.” They’ve reached the intersection, and the two of them step back against the wall. “You haven’t taught me how to hold up under torture yet.”

“We’ll get to that,” he promises, tucking the hard drive away and forcefully wrenching his mind away from the possibility that Jemma could have done with that lesson, too. “It’s real fun.”

“All right,” Coulson says. “Here’s where we split. Skye and Ward?”

Grant reaffirms their roles, returning Coulson’s pointed glare with one of his own. Coulson has proven, in the past, to be untrustworthy—Grant hasn’t forgotten him leaving Jemma alone on that train in Italy, an incident which he now knows ended with Jemma throwing herself on a grenade. If anything happens to Jemma because Coulson abandons her ( _again_ ), HYDRA won’t be the only thing Grant terminates.

“We’ll take care of your girl, son,” Garrett promises, reading him as easily as always. “Don’t worry.”

Grant gives him a nod. He knows he can trust Garrett.

“Remember,” Coulson says as Grant and Skye start down the hall. “These agents are under orders. Use ICERs only. We’ll find Simmons, get her out.”

Grant still doesn’t know why they’re using ICERs—seriously, what kind of delusion is Coulson living in if he thinks that only one person in this entire base is actually HYDRA?—but he’s willing to go along with it. For now.

If Jemma’s been injured, all bets are off. But for the moment, he’ll play by Coulson’s rules.

“So,” Skye says as they make their way down the hall. “Do you know where we’re going? Because I have no idea where we are now, let alone where the nerve center is.”

“Yeah,” he nods. He pauses at an intersection, checking for movement, and considers which route to take.

The nerve center is down in the tunnels—the hallways _beneath_ the Hub. It is, as the name implies, the very center of operations, and if they can take control of it they can take control of the Hub. The enemy will know that just as well as he does, of course, so it’s sure to be well-guarded.

There are several entrances to the tunnels scattered throughout the base. Their options are to use the nearest entrance and proceed to the nerve center through the tunnels, or to continue on this level until they reach the entrance to the tunnels that is nearest to the nerve center.

Either way is a risk, and either way they’ll be encountering enemy agents before long.

But he thinks they’ll be better off continuing up here and taking the entrance closest to the nerve center. It will take longer, but they’ll be able to bypass most of the agents, since, if Hand’s got any sense at all, she’ll have guards posted in every hallway in the tunnels. She’ll have limited manpower, so there are likely to be fewer guards up here—there’s nothing of interest on this level.

Of course, there will be plenty of guards just outside the nerve center, and he’ll have to deal with them, but at least they can avoid most of the ones stationed throughout the tunnels.

He itches to take the most direct route—the quicker they accomplish their mission, the quicker he can get to searching for Jemma—but he won’t do anyone, Jemma included, any good if he gets himself and Skye killed with his impatience.

“Ward?” Skye asks.

“This way,” he says, and turns left. Skye follows.

They traverse the halls in silence for a while. Then Skye clears her throat.

“Hey, Ward?” she says. “Thanks.”

He glances at her. “For what?”

“What you said,” she hesitates. “About us being family. I didn’t—I mean…” She huffs and looks away, checking a connecting hallway as they pass it. “You know it’s likewise, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, a little amused by her clear discomfort. At the very least, it’s nice not to be alone in feeling awkward talking about this. “I know.”

“And it’s not just you,” she continues. “It’s Simmons, too. So I—I know it’s not easy for you to be here instead of looking for her. But there’s no way I could do this alone—and not just because I have no idea where we’re going. So, thanks. There’s no one I’d rather have at my back.”

He pauses, amusement gone and kind of at a loss. He has no idea where that came from.

“You’re welcome,” he says finally. “You’re right; this isn’t easy when I’m so worried about Jemma. But I wouldn’t have let you do this alone.”

“If Simmons…” She takes a deep breath. “If she was…I mean, you’d know, wouldn’t you? The bond would be…you’d know.”

They’re nearing the entrance they need to take to the tunnels, and he distracts himself by checking the signs on doors as they pass them. The truth is, he _should_ know. If Jemma dies, the soulbond will break, and there’s no way he could miss that.

The soulbond should be a source of comfort right now, because it’s still there and still strong, which means Jemma’s alive. Or at least, that’s what it _should_ mean.

But he’s having a little trouble trusting the soulbond these days. After what happened…

Lorelei manipulated the soulbond. She twisted and bent it— _corrupted_ it—in order to gain control of him. She used the soulbond to mess with his mind, to convince him to take actions that put the team at risk. It’s hard to trust the soulbond now—hard to think of anything but the way it was used against him only a couple of weeks ago.

It’s still there; warm and strong and stable as always. But it’s not as comforting as it used to be.

“Yeah,” he says finally, as they reach the entrance he’s been looking for. “I’d know.”

He lets Skye go down the ladder first, at her insistence. It should be safe enough; if he recalls correctly, this particular ladder ends in a supply closet.

It does. He drops down after her and instantly crosses to the door. He can hear footsteps and voices—a patrol, of course. The smart thing to do would be to stay here for a while, listen and learn the patrol rotation, figure out the gaps, and take advantage of them to try and reach the nerve center with as little enemy contact as possible.

However, that would take time that they just don’t have. There’s no way of knowing the rest of the team’s status. They’re not on comms for this mission—can’t be, as the comms are relayed through the Bus, which is currently in enemy hands—and they’re too far apart for the walkie-talkies they used the last time the comms weren’t available.

For all he knows, the rest of the team might have found and rescued Jemma and Trip by now. They might be waiting on an exit strategy. He and Skye need to get to the nerve center, disable the controls in general and the lock on the Bus specifically, and get back to the Bus so they can leave.

Grant cracks the door open and checks how many guards are outside. The answer: a lot. He only has time for a brief glance, but that’s all he needs. There are twelve men out there; all Level Five, all foot soldiers, all with the basic armor package. He can handle them, but it won’t be easy. Especially since he’ll have to do it alone; he can’t let Skye fight them—can’t risk her being taken out before she gets to the processing center.

If the job was easy, it wouldn’t be any fun, but still. He swears as he lets the door fall shut again.

“The processing center is at the end of that hall,” Skye says.

He nods without looking at her. “Give me your ICER.”

She argues a little, as expected. He’d like to talk her through it, get her to view it logically—the way a SHIELD agent should—but, once again, there’s no time for that. So he goes with the emotional play.

“I killed an innocent man, Skye,” he reminds her, allowing his voice to shake a little.

“You didn’t know,” she whispers. “You thought you were doing the right thing. You…thought he was going to—”

“To hurt you,” he interrupts. “I did that to protect you, and it was the wrong thing to do.” He holds out his hand for her ICER. “Let me do the right thing now.”

She hesitates for a long moment, then hands over her ICER. He stands, pulling out his own ICER, and checks that they’re both armed and ready. They are. It’s time to move.

“Ward,” Skye says softly, pushing herself to her feet.

He looks at her.

“Don’t die, okay?” she orders. “Or Simmons will kill me. And, honestly, she scares me a lot more than _they_ do.”

He grins. “Lock the door behind me.”

He doesn’t have to say anything else for her to realize what he intends. She moves to the corner, where she’ll be hidden behind the door when it opens, and reaches for the handle. He takes a deep breath, centers himself, and lets it out. Then he gives her the nod, and she opens the door.

His rage is safely in check; it has to be, if he wants to follow Coulson’s orders and incapacitate instead of kill. That’s all right. He’s a specialist. He can handle a few foot soldiers. Cannon fodder, his classmates at the Academy used to call them during strategy lessons. He can take them.

He goes through the door already shooting, and takes down six of the men before they can even react. That’s half of the enemy agents down, but now the others have recovered from their shock, and the easy part is over.

One of the guards is better—or possibly just faster—than the others, and manages to get behind Grant. He takes a right hook to the face that dazes him—only for a second, but it’s long enough for the guard to knock the ICER out of Grant’s left hand.

Seeing two other guards approaching, Grant drops the other ICER in favor of grabbing the guard and bringing him around to use as a shield. It’s just in time, as the guard is riddled with bullets—actual bullets, not dendrotoxin rounds—by his comrades.

He throws the guard at the other two, knocking them down, and grabs on to a pipe on the ceiling, swinging from it in order to kick another guard in the face as he turns the corner. He goes down hard, but it leaves Grant out of position to defend himself from one of the guards he knocked down earlier, who’s back on his feet and manages to get a few lucky hits in.

The guard slams Grant against the wall at exactly the right place for his head to go through the glass covering the emergency fire hose, which stings like a bitch but gives him an excellent weapon. Ignoring the blood running into his eyes, Grant grabs a piece of the glass and strikes out at the guard with it. He gets him in the face, and the man goes down just in time for Grant to kick another approaching guard in the stomach, knocking him back.

They’re getting smart, starting to come at him two at a time instead of hanging back to avoid risking hitting each other by accident, the way they have been. Grant knocks one out, takes a hard hit to the ribs from another, and knocks that one out as well. As the guard falls, Grant grabs the knife strapped to the man’s thigh and throws it, catching another guard right in the weak spot in his armor, and down that one goes, too.

Unfortunately, this is the point where he loses the advantage. Crossing people off is easy; it’s a hell of a lot harder to deliberately _not_ kill anyone. He could have taken them all out in seconds, but using enough force to incapacitate them without killing them takes longer, and with them coming at him two or three at a time, he doesn’t have the time to knock them _out_ , just down. He knocks out one more, and then the ones he hasn’t managed to keep down are swarming him.

They bring him down, and a few more appear. He’s completely surrounded, and, apparently, he’s managed to piss them off, because their orders to use lethal force have been forgotten in favor of kicking him like bullies in the schoolyard.

He _feels_ one rib crack, and that’s just about the last straw.

Screw Coulson’s orders. He’s going to cross these men off, and with great pleasure. He could do with letting out some of the rage and panic and fear he’s feeling over Jemma, anyway. And he knows just how to do it.

The knife he threw earlier is within his reach. He grabs it and lets go of his control.

There are only five men, and they’ve already grown complacent in the few seconds he’s been down. With the boiling fury in his chest to fuel him, and no longer holding back, it takes less than ten seconds to cross them all off.

He leaves the knife—he’s got a much better one of his own—and heads back to the supply closet where Skye is waiting. As he goes, he tucks the rage away again. It’s not easy, but he manages.

He trusts Garrett, he reminds himself. He trusts Trip. Hell, he even trusts May. They’ll take care of Jemma. They’ll see to it that she gets out of here safely. It’s his job to get her an exit route, and he needs to be clear headed for that.

By the time he reaches the supply closet (pausing to grab one of the ICERs off the ground), he’s got it all back under control. The not insignificant pain he’s in—one cracked rib, bruised knuckles, and that glass did some serious damage to his face, if the way it’s stinging is any indication—helps with that.

He opens the door—Skye forgot to lock it, he notes—to find Skye in the corner. She lets out a relieved breath when she sees him and, as he’s still a little out of breath himself, they just stand there for a moment, looking at each other.

Finally, she huffs a little laugh. “What took so long?”

“Stopped for coffee,” he jokes, but this really isn’t the time for messing around, so he pins her with a serious look. “You ready to hack the system?”

She grins and grabs her backpack off the ground, pulling it open to show him what’s inside. What’s inside, unexpectedly, is a bomb. A pretty well-made one, at that, and he’s a bit proud, despite himself. She really did pay attention during their lessons.

“Who said anything about hacking?” she asks.

It’s definitely not what he was expecting from her, but he’s glad. Destroying the nerve center will be a hell of a lot faster than hacking it, and the sooner they take care of this, the sooner he gets to Jemma.

“Good thinking,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Skye hesitates in the doorway, looking at the bodies strewn around the hall, but after a glance at Grant she nods once.

“Guess they didn’t give you much choice,” she says, stepping out into the hall.

“No,” he agrees, wiping the blood off of his forehead and away from his eyes. “They didn’t.”

The processing center is empty. Hand must be using one of the situation rooms as a base instead. Probably a wise move, since the processing center is a natural target, and she wouldn’t want to be distracted by constant attempts by the enemy to seize it.

Either way, it makes it easy for them to plant the explosives around the room.

“There are multiple back-up systems in place,” Grant warns Skye as they do so. “Taking out the nerve center will shake Hand’s control, but not for long. So once we do this—”

“Find the team and get out before Hand can get things running again,” Skye completes. “Got it.” She arms the last bomb and stands. “What happens if we can’t find the team in time?”

He shrugs, motioning for her to lead the way out of the room. “We’ll have to do this again in one, if not more, of the sit rooms. Won’t be easy or quick, so let’s not make it necessary.”

“Right,” she agrees. “Good thinking.”

Seeing as they _are_ in a hurry, they only set the timers for two minutes. So they make their way back down the hall quickly and duck around the corner for cover. Skye sticks her fingers in her ears, while Grant remains on guard, ICER at the ready. They can’t afford to be complacent.

The bombs go off with a dull _boom_ that shakes the whole building. The fact that the lights go out immediately after proves that the explosives have done their job—power operations have been affected, therefore the processing center is down—but…

“Was that all of them?” Skye asks, a little surprised.

Grant leans around the corner and then back, shaking his head. “It wasn’t as big as I thought it—”

He’s interrupted by a much larger explosion, and he instinctively shoves Skye back against the wall and covers her. The emergency lights flicker off for a moment, then return.

“Okay,” Skye says after a moment. “That’s better.”

He pulls away from her, straightening and checking the hall. “That’s gonna draw some attention. Let’s move.”

“Lead the way,” she says.

The Hub is huge, and there’s no way of knowing where Jemma might be. Which means there’s no way to be sure of where the team might have gone to look for her. His best guess, however, is one of the auxiliary power stations—it wouldn’t be heavily guarded, just a few enemy agents that Garrett, Coulson, and May could easily handle, and all of the auxiliary power stations are plugged into the security grid, so they’d be able to search for Jemma and Trip on the monitors instead of going through the whole compound on foot.

And the nearest auxiliary power station is up one level, very near to where they last saw the rest of the team. They’ll start there.

He leads Skye back to the supply closet they were in earlier, then up the ladder to the level above.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Auxiliary power station,” he says, and explains his reasoning.

“Wow,” she says, as he checks around a corner and motions her forward. “Do you know _every_ SHIELD base this well, or just the Hub?”

“Every base I’ve been stationed at,” he says. “Never know when you’re gonna have to infiltrate—shit.”

Halfway through his sentence, the lights come back up, which means the power is back online. Which means that someone has recovered control of the base—and since they can’t be sure which _someone_ it is, their exit strategy is screwed.

“Sooooo,” Skye draws out. “Sit room?”

Grant takes a deep breath and lets the accompanying pain in his ribs ground him. The rage and panic in his chest are building by the minute, and the only thing he wants to do is find Jemma.

He trusts Garrett. He trusts Trip. He trusts May.

Jemma will be fine. The best thing he can do for her is secure their exit.

“Yeah,” he agrees, resigned. “Sit room.”

He turns them away from the path to the auxiliary power station and aims for the nearest sit room. With every step he has to remind himself that he trusts (most) of the others, that Jemma will be fine, that she’s probably even now fussing over May’s injured arm and shooing Fitz, who’s undoubtedly hovering, away.

But it’s difficult, because he can’t keep his mind from imagining what HYDRA agents would do if they got their hands on her—the torture she’d suffer if she refused to work for HYDRA, which she undoubtedly would. Jemma has strong morals and absolutely no sense of self-preservation. It’s a dangerous combination.

He thought she’d be safe here. He had no trouble leaving her here yesterday because he thought she would be safe. How could he have predicted that HYDRA would pick today, of all days, to come out of the shadows? After nearly seventy years hiding within SHIELD, why today?

With every step, he tries to convince himself that Jemma is probably fine, and with every step, he fails. The rage builds, brick by brick, nearly choking him with its intensity and only strengthened as it bounces off his panic. There’s a storm of emotion raging in his chest, and with every step he comes closer to losing control of it.

Until they turn a corner and it disappears like it was never there, replaced with sweet relief. For a moment, he’s almost lightheaded, because they’ve found the team and Jemma is right there with them.

She looks to be in one piece. She doesn’t have any immediately obvious injuries, she’s standing under her own power, and while Fitz is standing close to her, he’s not hovering, so Grant feels safe assuming she hasn’t been seriously harmed.

“Jemma,” he says, and she turns to face him. “Are you—”

She throws herself at him, grabbing on and holding him tightly, and he bites back a wince. Jemma might be unharmed, but he’s really not. Still, he returns the hug gratefully, too relieved to worry about his ribs. He looks over her head at Fitz, but the engineer turns away. His brow furrows as he looks down at Jemma. This is something else, something beyond the fear of the last few hours.

“What is it?” he asks her.

She sniffles a little and pulls away slightly. “I’m so sorry, Grant.”

“For what?” he asks, shaking his head. “Jemma, what’s going on?”

They’re standing at an intersection, and SHIELD agents dressed in riot gear are leading a line of what must be captured HYDRA agents down the connecting hallway, but he’s been ignoring them, focused on Jemma. The sound of shouting draws his attention now.

“You’re a goddamn traitor! Traitor!” Trip is hollering.

Grant freezes. He really hopes that doesn’t mean…but it does. At the end of the line of captives, Garrett walks, handcuffed, sandwiched between two SHIELD agents and very clearly being kept prisoner. Fuck. Fuck fucking _fuck_.

His training serves him well, because he automatically snaps to damage control mode. If SHIELD knows that Garrett is the Clairvoyant, or even just HYDRA, they’ll be looking at Grant—not his only student, but definitely the one he’s closest to, and they’ve never hidden that—as a suspect as well.

He lets his grip on Jemma go slack, lets his face fall into confused lines, and makes eye contact with Trip. He looks at Coulson, then back after Garrett, furrowing his brow and projecting disbelief. He needs to look stunned, like he can’t comprehend what’s happening.

“What?” he asks, voice bewildered.

“Come here, Grant,” Coulson says, and, drawing him away from Jemma, leads him a little further down the hall.

“Sir, what—”

“Garrett’s the Clairvoyant,” Coulson says. His voice is quiet and sympathetic, and there’s no trace of suspicion on his face as he looks up at Grant.

“No,” he denies, shaking his head. “No way.”

“I’m sorry, Grant,” Coulson says, and he does sound it. “But it’s true. He’s the Clairvoyant and he’s been working for HYDRA all this time.”

“You’re wrong,” Grant insists. He lets a little anger slip into his tone. “Garrett’s not—he couldn’t—you’re wrong. Hand is—”

“Hand is SHIELD,” Coulson interrupts. “Garrett confessed. Well, I say confessed. He let something slip while he was trying to convince us to kill Hand, and when he realized what he’d said, he couldn’t resist gloating.”

Let something slip? Fucking idiot. After all these years, he gets careless _now_?

“No,” he says. “No, there’s some mistake. Garrett _couldn’t_ …” Coulson reaches for him, and he jerks away. He lets desperation creep into his voice. “It’s just a misunderstanding. It has to be. There’s no _way_ Garrett is the Clairvoyant. No way.”

Then Jemma’s there, slipping her hand into his and holding on tight.

“You’re injured,” she says, voice soft with sympathy. “Come with me. I’ll fix you up and tell you all about it.”

“What about you?” he asks, allowing himself to be tugged in the direction of the hangar. “Are you hurt?”

“Not a scratch,” she promises. “There was a moment, where I thought—but, no. I’m not hurt.”

“Thought what?” he presses. It’s good for the cover, preferring to change the subject instead of facing the truth slowly dawning on him (or it would be, if he hadn’t already known), but he also really wants to know. Jemma may not be injured, but she’s worryingly pale, and he doesn’t think it’s entirely on his behalf.

She looks at him for a long moment, considering, and then sighs.

“Agent Triplett and I were taken into custody and brought before Agent Hand,” she says. “She told us that we could either join HYDRA or die.” She takes a deep breath. “We chose to die, at which point she revealed that it was a test.”

“If you chose HYDRA, she knew she couldn’t trust you,” he completes. “That’s…”

Kind of a flawed plan. For one thing, HYDRA agents don’t _all_ know each other, but a good part of them do; plenty of HYDRA agents would have slipped past that test, knowing that she wasn’t HYDRA and realizing what she was up to. For another thing, actual loyal SHIELD agents might have gone along and pretended to join HYDRA, intending to bring it down from within.

There are a lot of ways it could have gone wrong. He’s just grateful that Jemma didn’t get caught in the crossfire.

They enter the hangar and head for the Bus. Jemma hesitates at the foot of the cargo ramp, staring up at the cargo bay—which is displaying obvious signs of the explosion—in surprise.

“What…?”

“If you think that’s bad,” he says. “You should see the cabin.”

She shakes her head and starts up the ramp, her hand still tightly clasped around his.

“It’s a horrible thing,” she murmurs. “All of us turning against each other, with no idea who to trust…and HYDRA, hiding among us for all these years.”

In the lab, she lets go of his hand and motions him to a stool as she crosses the room to fetch the first aid kit. He takes off his tac vest and then sits down carefully. His ribs are killing him, and he idly wishes he’d had time to hurt those foot soldiers a little more than he did. Those kicks he took did a lot of damage.

Jemma sets the first aid kit on the counter next to him and pulls on a pair of latex gloves, then takes out some antiseptic wipes.

“What happened here?” she asks, as she gets to work cleaning the blood off of his face.

“Broke some glass,” he says.

She pauses. “With your _face_?”

“Yep.”

“Well, that’s one way to do it,” she mutters.

She finishes cleaning the blood away and checks his various cuts and abrasions in silence. Luckily, nothing needs stitches, and she applies antibiotic ointment to the worst of them. She does so with very minimal fussing, and he’s strongly reminded of two weeks ago, when she treated him after he threw down with May while under mind control.

He thought she was angry at him, then, although he was mistaken. This time he knows exactly why she’s silent—because she’s trying to think of a delicate way to convince him that the closest thing he has to a father is a traitor.

As much of a problem as Garrett being revealed is, Grant can’t help the affection that swells in his chest. Because of course Jemma is more worried about how he’ll feel about Garrett’s betrayal than she is about everything else that happened today. SHIELD fell, she nearly died, and she undoubtedly had a terrifying few hours as she was separated from the team while Hand attempted to kill them, but she’s not dwelling on that. No, he can tell from the little glances she darts at his face as she tends to his bruised knuckles that she’s only worried about him, right now.

Finally, after everything—except his ribs, which he doesn’t mention—has been seen to, Jemma strips off her gloves and throws them away with a sigh.

“Agent Hand had the room that Garrett and the team were in bugged,” she says. “We heard everything he said to them.”

Continuing with angry denials is probably the way to go, but he can’t turn his anger against Jemma. Not after spending the past however many hours (he’s entirely lost track, at this point) frantic over her. Not when she has that look on her face, when she’s so obviously hurting for him.

So he lets himself sound tired, instead. “You misheard. Whatever he said, you just…you just misunderstood him. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry, Grant,” she nearly whispers. “But we didn’t. He confessed. Outright. And…”

“Maybe it was a trick,” he suggests when she trails off. He slips desperation back into his tone. “Maybe he was testing them, like Hand did. Just saying he was the Clairvoyant to see how they reacted.”

“It wasn’t,” she says. “I’m so sorry, but it wasn’t a trick. He’s the Clairvoyant, and he’s been working for HYDRA this whole time.”

“How do you know?” he asks, surging to his feet. “How do you _know_ it wasn’t a trick?”

She hesitates, then meets his eyes. In addition to sympathy and worry, there’s grief and anger there, and he straightens.

“What?” he asks. “What is it?”

“What happened in January,” she says, and swallows. “The kidnapping attempt…that was him.”

That hits him like a punch to the gut, and he knows it shows on his face. He knew, of course, that Garrett was behind that—has already made clear to his mentor that they’ll have to talk about his _methods_ someday—but it’s a shock to hear it.

_That_ is not something Garrett just let slip. If he said that, it was deliberate. And there would be no reason for him to share that so early, to play that card with Coulson and the rest immediately after being revealed, unless…unless he knew that Hand was listening. If he knew the room was bugged, knew that Hand was hearing every word…

It wasn’t a slip, he realizes. Garrett purposely let himself get caught, intentionally let them discover he was the Clairvoyant.

“No,” he says, and the tremor in his voice is entirely real, because he knows what this means.

Garrett’s decided to cut his losses with SHIELD. SHIELD is done, but Coulson and Hand won’t see it that way. They’ll want to keep going, to rebuild, and Garrett’s decided to free himself from that obligation by letting them find out that he’s a traitor.

But he’s not going to spend the rest of his life in a cell. He’s counting on Grant to break him out—or keep him from making it to the cell in the first place—and that’s why he showed his hand on the kidnapping so early; to clear Grant of suspicion so that he can be in a position to free him.

They have dozens of contingency plans. Plans for this, for Garrett getting caught, for HYDRA coming out of the shadows, for SHIELD falling. Not all at once, not really, but they have plans that can be adapted to suit this situation. Breaking Garrett out won’t be a problem.

The _problem_ is in the fact that all of those plans were made before he met Jemma. None of them take her into account. And standing here, staring into her apologetic eyes, he can’t think of a single one that lets him do right by Garrett _and_ keep Jemma.

“No,” he repeats.

“I’m sorry, Grant,” she says. “He said—he intended to use me as leverage against you. He said that if he had me, if he threatened my life, you’d do whatever he told you to. He wouldn’t have had to accompany us on the search for Tahiti, because you’d have shared every move we made with him…to save my life.”

He curses, whirls away from her, and slams his fist into the cabinet above the sink. It makes the pain in his bruised knuckles flare, so he does it again. And again.

“Grant!” Jemma gasps. “Stop it!”

She grabs his arm, which is the only reason he doesn’t keep hitting the cabinet, and then wraps her arms around his waist.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I know what he meant to you and I know you’re angry. But hurting yourself won’t change anything.”

He slips his arms around her and closes his eyes, resting his chin against her head.

He can’t see a way to keep her. None of the plans he’s got will allow him to maintain his cover with the team. Actually, most of them involve faking his death so that he and Garrett can work from the shadows, without interference. None of those will work, of course, since Jemma’s timer will remain green, but that’s even worse.

He’d rather she think him dead and mourn him than think him a traitor and hate him. But he can’t see a way around it.

They stand like that for a long while, as his mind races with plans and contingencies. He’s trying desperately to draw up a plan that allows him to free Garrett without revealing himself.

Of course, it would help if he knew exactly what was going to be _done_ with Garrett.

When they’re interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing, some time later, he still hasn’t thought of anything.

“Sorry,” Trip says as Grant and Jemma part. “Just thought you’d like an update.”

“Yeah,” Grant says. His voice is hoarse, genuinely, and he clears his throat as he scrubs a hand across his face. “What’s up?”

“HYDRA’s everywhere,” he says grimly. “There are a lot of bases under attack. But the Fridge is secure, and Hand wants Garrett there ASAP.”

“Just Garrett?” Jemma asks.

“The others are gonna stay in holding cells ‘til things settle down enough for a mass transport,” Trip explains. “But Hand wants the traitor out of here.”

“For interrogation,” Grant surmises. “Find out what he knows about what.”

“And then lock him in the Ice Box,” Trip says with vicious satisfaction. “And throw away the damn key.”

“So it’s just going to be him,” Grant muses. “A small transport that can pass under the radar. Smart.”

“Less risk of HYDRA picking up the trail and staging a rescue,” Trip agrees. “Can’t say I’m crazy about her methods, but the woman knows what she’s doing.”

“Yeah,” Grant says, watching the commiserating smiles Trip and Jemma exchange. “She does.”

Unfortunately.

It’s an opportunity. All Grant has to do is get on that transport, take out the guards that will be sent along, and he and Garrett are home free. It’ll be easy. Even getting on the transport will be a snap—give Coulson some sentimental crap about needing to turn the key on Garrett’s cell himself, and he’ll be added to the prisoner detail at once.

Once again, the problem is Jemma.

If he does this—if he goes with Garrett and frees him and leaves SHIELD—there’s no way he keeps Jemma.

Because when Jemma’s timer stays green, so they know he’s alive, but they never see him again? When they never hear from him, or from the rest of the guard detail, and when they realize that Garrett never arrived at the Fridge? They’ll know he’s a traitor. They’ll know he’s a traitor, and Jemma will never forgive him.

He might be able to string it out for a while—make sporadic contact, make excuses—but sooner or later, they’ll realize the truth, and he’ll lose her.

This is the last moment he gets with her.

“Anyway, that’s all,” Trip says. “You two can go back to your PDA.”

“Actually,” Grant says. “I’d like a word, if you don’t mind. But, uh, could you give us a minute, first?”

Trip raises an eyebrow, but nods. “I’ll wait in the hangar, take a look at the damage. Your plane’s got more holes than the security at that base in Uttaradit.”

He smirks a little, despite himself, at the memory. “Thanks.”

Once Trip is gone, Grant looks down at Jemma. She’s already watching him, with a very knowing look.

“You intend to go with him,” she says. “Accompany Garrett to the Fridge.”

“I have to,” he says honestly.

“It’s not your fault, Grant,” Jemma says gently. “What Garrett did—”

“I should have known,” he interrupts. But he doesn’t want to continue. He _should_ ; he should draw it out, build up the story of his guilt over his supposed ignorance of Garrett’s crimes. But he doesn’t want to. If this is the last time he ever gets to see Jemma, he doesn’t want to spend it lying to her.

So instead of continuing the lie, he says, simply and honestly, “This is something I have to do.”

“Very well,” she says, smiling sadly. “I won’t stop you, then.”

He wants to tell her to stop him. He wants her to beg him to stay so that he has an excuse not to go. He wants the excuse, the reason to shrug and say that he tried, but oh well. He wants to let Garrett get locked away.

But he can’t. Garrett saved his life and his sanity and possibly even his soul. Garrett gave him a family, a purpose, a reason to live. Garrett is the only reason he made it long enough to meet Jemma. Garrett _made_ him.

Grant can’t turn his back on him now. He wishes he could. But he can’t. Not even for Jemma.

There are tears burning in his throat. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to say goodbye to her, after only six months. He spent his _whole life_ waiting for her, and now he has to give her up.

It’s worse than unfair.

Actually crying would be suspicious, not to mention really fucking embarrassing, so he leans down and kisses her to distract himself.

It’s hungry and desperate and intense. He pours everything into it: all of his grief, his love for her, his anger that it has to end this way. All of the fear he felt today, from the moment he realized what was happening at the Hub until the moment he turned the corner to see her standing there, alive and well.

It’s also a little painful, thanks to his split lip, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He slides his hands around her waist and lifts her up, turning to set her down on the counter so he doesn’t have to crane his neck as much, and keeps kissing her the whole time.

She’s obviously more affected by the day’s events than she’s been letting on, because she meets him with just as much desperation. She slides one hand into his hair, slips the fingers of the other through one of his belt loops to tug him even closer, while he cups her face in both hands.

Eventually, she pulls back, breathless. He kisses his way along her jaw and down her neck, unwilling to pull away. This is the last moment he gets. The last kiss he gets.

She’s wearing the necklace he gave her for Christmas, as she has at least three times a week, every week, since she opened it, and the sight of it _hurts_ , because he knows that soon enough she’ll know he’s a traitor, and she’ll never wear it again.

He sucks a mark into her neck, right above the chain of the necklace, and she gasps a little, then twines her fingers in his hair and tugs him away.

“You know the rules,” she scolds playfully, but her eyes are worried as they meet his. “No marks that can’t be hidden by clothes, remember?”

“Sorry,” he says, mustering up what he knows is a very weak smile. “Couldn’t resist.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says. She thinks he’s upset because he’s worried about leaving her—and he is, but not in the way she thinks. “We probably won’t even leave the Hub while you’re gone. The Bus, as Agent Triplett mentioned, is in need of serious repair, after all.”

“Right,” he says. That’s another worry; he’s leaving and he won’t return, so who’s going to have her back? He can trust Trip and May, he knows that, but with Coulson and Hand in charge…

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” she repeats.

He leans forward and kisses her once more, gently this time. He keeps it short, because he has to—because he needs to leave now, or he never will.

“Of course you will,” he agrees when he pulls back. “But…if you do leave the Hub, stick with Trip, okay?”

She nods. “Very well.” She slides off of the table. “And when you come back, I still want to hear about San Diego.”

Despite everything, he smiles. She has that effect on him.

“Okay,” he agrees.

“I’m holding you to it,” she warns.

He nods and takes her hand, lifting her wrist so that he can kiss her timer one last time. She’ll come to hate it, he thinks, hate the reminder of the traitor that fate saddled her with. His timer was a comfort to him, when he had it—and oh, does he regret giving it up—but hers will be a torment. And that’s a thought that aches more than the pain in his ribs.

“I love you,” he says, and his voice, for all of his inner turmoil, is surprisingly steady. “Be safe.”

“I love you,” she echoes, and goes on her toes to kiss him one last time. “Come back soon.”

“I will,” he lies. Then he turns and walks away, leaving her behind.

Every step is agony, and that has nothing to do with his injuries.

He pauses to grab his jacket out of the back of the SUV, because it has his keys and he’ll need them, and then leaves the Bus, putting it on as he goes. Trip is waiting in the hangar, as promised.

“What’s up?” he asks, falling into step with Grant as he heads for the door.

“I’m going to accompany the transport to the Fridge,” he says plainly.

Trip shakes his head. “Man…”

“I need to see this through, Trip,” he says. “All these years…I trusted that bastard. I need to see him pay.”

“I get it,” Trip says. “Wouldn’t mind seeing that myself. But you’re not just telling me to keep me in the loop.”

“No,” he agrees. “I need a favor.”

“You want me to watch your girl?” he guesses.

“I do,” he says. “The rest of the team will keep an eye on her, but…let’s just say I’m not as trusting as I was this morning.”

“You think one of them might be a traitor, too?” Trip asks, suddenly serious.

“Probably not,” Grant shrugs. “But I’d rather not take the chance.”

Trip nods, understanding. “You know I’ve got your back, Ward. No one’s getting near her. My word on that.”

They’ve nearly reached the situation room, and Grant stops and offers Trip his hand.

“Thank you,” he says, as they shake hands. “I owe you one.”

“Call it even,” Trip grins. “I owed you, anyway.” He nods in the direction of the sit room, where one of Hand’s agents is just leaving. “Transport’s leaving any minute. I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Take care, Trip,” Grant says.

“You too, man,” he nods. “And, hey. You get a clear shot, take one for me too, would you?”

“Count on it,” Grant agrees.

He leaves Trip in the hall and continues into the sit room. Hand is speaking to Coulson, and her words reveal an unexpected silver lining.

She’s _personally_ accompanying Garrett to the Fridge. Which means, when he takes control of the transport, he’ll be taking her out. He’ll finally be getting his revenge for what happened in South Ossetia. It’s cold comfort, and it’s not much compared to what he’s losing, but it’s better than nothing.

\---

After brief goodbyes to the rest of the team, in which he orders Skye to keep up with her training—because SHIELD may be done, but he put a lot of work into her, and he doesn’t want it to go to waste—and Fitz to take care of himself and Jemma, Grant follows Hand and two of her men onto the small transport that will be taking them to the Hub.

The men in question are Jacobson and Chaimson, and that’s a lucky break. He’s been considering, as he talked his way onto the prisoner detail and said his goodbyes, how quickly the deception might be noticed. Hand gave Coulson a burner phone to use to keep in contact with, and Grant will be able to use that to hide his actions for at least a little while—come up with some reason not to return directly from the Fridge, make excuses about Garrett’s interrogation running long, whatever—but there’s one variable he can’t control: soulmate timers.

He’s going to have to cross off all three of them to free Garrett, and that’s where the choice of Chaimson and Jacobson is lucky. Because it would give the game away if the guard detail’s soulmates suddenly showed up with red timers, demanding to know how they died.

Hand’s soulmate is a specialist, Izzy Hartley, whose timer was removed years ago. She won’t be a problem. And, fortunately, neither will Chaimson and Jacobson’s. Chaimson because his soulmate died of cancer three years ago—Grant remembers the sympathy card that was getting passed around the Hub when he was called in for debriefing at the time—and Jacobson because he hasn’t met his soulmate yet.

Which Grant knows because Jacobson is a field agent, not a specialist, and his timer is peeking out from his sleeve, still blue.

So. Timers won’t be a problem.

Chaimson shoves Garrett down into one of the seats against the left wall of the transport, then sits down next to him. Grant takes a seat on the right wall as Jacobson heads for the cockpit to set a course for the Fridge.

Hand remains standing, eyes locked on Garrett.

Grant can’t make his move until Jacobson gets back; can’t risk Jacobson seeing what’s happening and radioing back to the Hub to tip them off. So he sits back in his seat and waits. His mind goes automatically to Jemma, and he takes a deep breath. He can’t think of her. He can’t let himself dwell on the fact that he won’t ever see her again—that if he does, she’ll be looking at him with nothing but hate.

So he utilizes the techniques May taught him to put away his rage, this time to put away _Jemma_. It hurts to do it, but he has to.

He owes Garrett this much, if not more.

Eventually, Jacobson returns, reporting that the course is locked and sitting on Garrett’s other side. It’s time to make his move, but Grant finds himself hesitating. He knows what he has to do. He’ll even enjoy it, in Hand’s case, because he’s never forgotten what that mission in South Ossetia nearly cost Jemma.

Jemma, again. She’s why he’s hesitating. Putting her aside didn’t work at all.

Once he does this, that’s it. This move, killing Hand, Jacobson, and Chaimson in order to free Garrett, is what’s going to cost him his soulmate. She’ll be alive and (hopefully) safe, but she’ll never be _his_ again. Once he does this and she learns about it, which she inevitably will, she’ll never forgive him. He knows she won’t.

So he hesitates, prolonging the last moments in which Jemma has no reason to hate him.

“He’s not telling stories now, is he?” Hand asks.

Grant glances at her, then back to Garrett.

“You know what I’m thinking, Agent Garrett?” she continues. “I’m thinking the Ice Box of the Fridge is a little too comfortable for you. Maybe we should put you a little _deeper_ underground.”

Garrett turns his head slightly to glare up at her, but says nothing.

“What do you think, Agent Ward?” Hand asks, turning to him. “You shot the wrong Clairvoyant before. Care to shoot the right one?”

It’s tempting. It’s horribly, horribly tempting. Kill Garrett and let that be the end of this. Go back to the Hub, back to SHIELD, back to _Jemma_ , and pretend that he’s nothing but loyal. He could keep her, retain her love and trust, and never have to leave her behind. He might even be able to talk her away from SHIELD—which is all but destroyed, at this point—and into another, safer job.

It’s tempting. All he has to do is pull the trigger. All he has to do is _follow his orders_ , like he’s always been trained—like Garrett taught him. All he has to do is obey the indirect order he’s just been given.

He looks at Garrett for a long moment, then stands and unholsters his sidearm. He checks the magazine, then pulls back the slide, never looking away from Garrett.

Then he shoots Chaimson and Jacobson, one bullet each, right between the eyes, because it might be tempting, but he’s not turning his back on Garrett.

He owes Garrett everything. He won’t kill him. Not for anything. Certainly not for Victoria fucking Hand, who once left him to die.

Speaking of whom, she makes no move for her own sidearm. She just stares at him in shock as he brings the gun around on her and pulls the trigger. One bullet, center mass, and down she goes. He steps a little closer to her and adds a double tap, just for good measure.

And if, in his mind, he hears the sound of a door slamming closed on his relationship with Jemma…he ignores it.

It’s done now. There’s no going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. That just happened. You may be asking yourself (if you’re not too busy cursing my name) exactly what’s going to happen next, and that’s…a little complicated.
> 
> So! Allow me to explain.
> 
> It wasn’t always my intention to have this episode go this way. In fact, one of the very first things I wrote for this series was a scene where Ward shoots Garrett. However, as the fic progressed and I got to know the characters better, I realized that it just didn’t fit. Grant has grown and changed over the course of this story, but not to the point where he could turn his back on Garrett.
> 
> Part of this is because, as I’ve discussed with some of you, I’ve been a little caught by the framework of the show. There are certain things that I’ve been unable to change, because there are things that _have_ to happen in order to make future episodes possible. If, for example, Grant had gotten his way in TRACKS and kept Jemma out of the mission, Skye very well may have actually died—which would _definitely_ derail things, now wouldn’t it?
> 
> So, what do you need to know?
> 
> First of all, this isn’t the end of this story. The worst, as you know, is yet to come—if it comes at all. Just because this has remained the same doesn’t mean that _everything_ will. _I_ know how this story ends, but don’t assume that you do! Just some friendly advice, there. So, yes, _sometimes_ will continue, and it will be my main focus.
> 
> HOWEVER. My brain really has a mind of its own (ha!), and it has often wandered to how things may have gone if I’d been able to change things as much as I would have liked. Accordingly, I have plenty of ideas on that front, too, and have been mostly unable to keep from writing them.
> 
> Therefore, I will be starting a new series—tentatively titled “break the glass.” My side-story _i dare you to move (like today never happened)_ will be moved to that series from this one, and it won’t be alone there for long. I will be starting a story in the “break the glass” series (the title of which has yet to be decided) which will be a collection of unrelated one-shots examining other ways things could have gone. Yes, that’s right—I’m writing AUs of my own AU, here. That’s how deep I’m in.
> 
> Updates of “break the glass” will probably be sporadic—as I said above, this fic will remain my focus—but they _will_ happen. Each chapter will be titled with the episode it spins off from and (possibly) something relating to what’s changed. So, in the above example, the chapter title might be TRACKS: Grant Gets His Way. Get it? This way you can pick and choose which chapters you’d like to read.
> 
> Of course, you’re not obligated to read _everything_ that I write. If you like, consider it a “choose your own adventure” story—pick the path you want to see, and follow the appropriate series. Or you can read both, a little bit of “break the glass” to cheer you up after “before you fall” brings you down.
> 
> There will still be plenty of conflict in the other series, of course, but the “before you fall” series is what you might call the darkest timeline—lots of angst ahead.
> 
> And, in case you’re wondering, the reason that the AU collection gets its own series, instead of just being added to this one, is because some of the one-shots may end up with follow-ups (like _dare you to move_ did)—sometimes I really can’t help myself—and I want to keep them separate instead of making the “before you fall” series crowded and confusing.
> 
> Okay, I think that’s everything. Except I want to thank all of you for sticking with me for so long. I’ve never tackled a project of this size before—did you know, before this story, the longest thing I had ever written was 4500 words?—and I can’t believe it got this far.
> 
> Thanks so much for your support and, as always, thank you so much for reading. See you next time!


	18. Providence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SHIELD has fallen, but Grant's work is far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thanks so much for all of the comments and kudos. They mean a lot.
> 
> Second, I'm sorry this took so long! This chapter was like pulling teeth, I swear. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but I figured I've left you waiting long enough, so...
> 
> Third, this chapter makes reference to two of the side-stories: _i'll be right here now (to hold you when the sky falls down)_ and _we're arm in arm (as we sing away)_ , to be precise. So if you haven't already read them, you might want to do that now.
> 
> Fourth, there are very vague references to torture in this chapter. Nothing graphic or even mildly descriptive, but it was suggested that a heads-up might be appreciated, so. Heads up!
> 
> I think that's it. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

The first thing Grant does after shooting Victoria Hand is uncuff Garrett. The next thing he does is alter their course.

They’ll have to deal with the Fridge at some point, but this isn’t the time. It’s the most secure of SHIELD’s facilities; two men with minimal weaponry won’t be able to bring it down, no matter how good their training. To tackle the Fridge, they’ll need heavy munitions and at least one back-up team. It’ll have to wait.

Instead, he sets course for Havana, Cuba. They have a secondary base there, a hideaway Garrett established years ago. It’s underneath a barber shop, which honestly is a little more like a spy novel than Grant typically likes to operate, but it works. The owner of the barber shop, a man named Ernesto, is fiercely loyal to Garrett and won’t be spilling his secrets anytime soon, which is all that really matters.

It’s a long flight to Cuba, and aside from a brief stop on an unnamed, uncharted island to drop Hand, Jacobson, and Chaimson’s bodies, there’s not much to do on it. Garrett tells stories, reminiscing about his days as a SHIELD agent, but Grant’s heard them all before, so he pretty much just tunes them out.

He tries not to think about Jemma. He mostly fails.

\---

Ernesto is overjoyed to see them. He greets them in cheerful Spanish, offers a shave or a haircut, and, when they decline, solemnly promises that no one has been in the basement since Garrett’s last visit. They leave him to help the customer waiting and continue downstairs.

“First things first,” Garrett says, once they’ve personally assured that no one else is in the basement. It’s not that they _distrust_ Ernesto, exactly. It’s just that no specialist makes it past their first six months in action by taking things on faith. “We need back-up.”

“Will HYDRA send us reinforcements?” Grant asks, leaning back against a table. “We haven’t exactly toed the line.”

“We’ve gone off-script a few times, true,” Garrett admits. “But HYDRA’s in chaos right now, and we still want the same things. The success of the Deathlok project, the fall of SHIELD, the truth and the light, yada yada yada.”

He plays with the sat phone for a moment.

“We need to raid the Fridge,” he continues. “It’s full of weapons, supplies, and some handy distractions for what’s left of SHIELD. But the Fridge is the most secure SHIELD facility. It won’t go down easy.”

“We need to raid the Fridge to get supplies,” Grant says. “But we need supplies to raid the Fridge.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says, pointing at him. “Pop quiz time, Grant. What do we do next?”

“Hit a secondary target,” he says at once. It’s the obvious solution. “Something well-stocked but with less security. Like…the Cube.”

“Good answer,” Garrett praises. “I’ll call HYDRA, send a team to hit the Cube. What should their objectives be?”

Garrett’s already got a plan in mind. Hell, it’s probably already in play. This is a test for Grant, to make sure that his skills are still sharp and that they’re still on the same wavelength. It’s an old habit of Garrett’s, to test Grant like this whenever they’re reunited after working apart for any significant amount of time. It’s long since stopped irritating him.

“Primary objective is to take control of the Cube,” he says. “Secure it for future use—by us or, more likely, HYDRA. It’s one less base in SHIELD’s hands, makes them that much weaker. Secondary objective is to gain supplies: munitions and transport, mainly.”

“Is that all?” Garrett asks, raising his eyebrows.

The answer is clearly _no_ , so Grant thinks quickly. What else? They need to hit the Cube in order to enable them to raid the Fridge. It stands to reason that Garrett already has a clear plan for _how_ to raid the Fridge, and that it requires something specific from the Cube in order to work.

The fact that the Fridge knows to expect Garrett as a prisoner means that they _might_ be able to just walk in through the front door. But Victoria Hand was a paranoid control freak, and there’s a chance she put extra security measures in place before she died. Some new pass phrase or procedure, which they have no way of finding out about, with her dead.

They _might_ be able to just walk in. If not, they’re going to need a strategy. A full-frontal assault is possible, but unlikely to be effective. Even if it is, it won’t be quick and it won’t be easy. The Fridge has top-notch security. Their best bet is to get a man inside who can disable security and let the rest of the assault team—assuming that they _can_ get reinforcements from HYDRA—in.

Grant could disable the security easily, but he’ll need to get inside first. If they won’t just let him in—if there are new security measures in place—he’ll need a way to compel the guards to break protocol and let him inside without the proper passphrase or credentials or whatever. Blackmail, extortion, and coercion are all out—they require previous knowledge of the guards, and there’s no way, with SHIELD in its current condition, to find out who’s even stationed at the Fridge right now, let alone the guard roster.

Which means…

“A helicopter,” he says. “Secondary objective is to gain control of a helicopter with heavy firepower. _Tertiary_ objective is to gather whatever other munitions and transports are available.”

“A helicopter,” Garrett muses. “Now why would we need one of those?”

“Insurance,” Grant says. “If we can’t get into the Fridge by asking nicely, we can trick them into letting us in by staging a HYDRA attack. Have a helicopter make a couple circuits around the roof, firing on us, and the guards will let us in. Saving the life of a fellow agent trumps protocol.”

Garrett grins. “Couldn’t have come up with better myself. Good work, son. We’ll call in HYDRA, send a team to attack the Cube—with orders to gain control and steal a helicopter.”

“You want me to lead the attack?” Grant asks.

“No, I’ve got another assignment for you,” Garrett says. “You’ll need a team at your back, too, but it’s nothing as challenging as the Cube.”

Grant eyes him, considering. What else do they need? He looks around their underground base, taking in all of the changes that have been made since his last visit. To say there are a lot would be putting it mildly. The last time he was here, nearly four years ago, this was essentially a safehouse. It had a stockpile of provisions, weapons, clothes, currency, and several different false IDs for both of them, and that was it.

Now, however…

The underground base has been sectioned off into several different rooms. In this one, the main part of the base, there are numerous tables and accompanying chairs. In the next room, which he can see from his position, there are computers and monitors and several pieces of equipment similar to what he’s seen in the Bus’ lab.

The base has been remodeled to accommodate a much larger presence, and while it’s true they’ll need space and storage if they’re getting reinforcements from HYDRA…this looks less like a military base and more like a laboratory.

He looks back to Garrett, who raises his eyebrows expectantly.

The main goal of Centipede was always to find a way to save Garrett’s life. The super soldier program was always secondary—just a way to keep HYDRA on board and funding their efforts. But Garrett’s had the GH-325—the means to save his life—for more than a month, now. And not only has he not taken it, he’s obviously set up their base to allow him to study it further.

Which means he intends to continue the Centipede project—to continue his attempts to create indestructible super soldiers to serve HYDRA.

So, what do they need? What will Centipede require—require enough that Grant _isn’t_ being sent to the Cube to acquire the tools they’ll need to take down the Fridge?

If Garrett is aiming to continue the Centipede project, he’s going to need scientists and technicians and test subjects. More importantly, he’s going to need someone to run them, because there’s no way he has the patience to do it himself.

“Raina,” he says. “You want me to break her out of whichever containment facility she’s being held in.”

“Gold star!” Garrett exclaims, clapping his hands together. “I guess Coulson hasn’t managed to ruin you, after all.”

“No, sir,” Grant agrees. Usually he’d be insulted by the suggestion, but…he’s not.

“Suit up, son,” Garrett orders. “I’ll get on the horn to HYDRA.”

“Yes, sir.”

\---

Eleven hours later, Grant leads a HYDRA strike team against the containment facility where Raina is being held. Security is minimal, and it takes less than five minutes to reach Raina’s cell—even with the occasional stop to cross off the guards he encounters.

The guard just down the hall from Raina’s cell is helpfully equipped with the keys to it, so once he’s shot him, Grant takes them and uses them to unlock the door. Raina is sitting on her bed, waiting patiently, but when he opens the door she gets to her feet.

“What are you doing here?” she demands.

He enters the cell, ignoring the way she backs towards the wall, and drops the backpack he’s carrying onto the sink so he can open it. Garrett sent a gift with him for Raina; partially in appreciation of all the hard work she did before being captured, and partially to serve as reassurance, since she doesn’t actually know that Grant works for Centipede.

He takes the box out of his backpack and approaches Raina, who’s pressed against the wall and watching him warily. Seeing that she’s not about to make a move to take the gift from him, he pulls off the lid so she can see the contents. She stares at it for a beat, then looks up at him with wide eyes.

“A gift from the Clairvoyant,” he says.

Raina exhales and finally moves away from the wall, reaching forward to pull the dress (decorated with flowers, of course, and Grant has no idea where Garrett found it) out of the box. She holds it up, smiling to herself, and then presses it to her chest and examines the length of it.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers.

Then she looks away from the dress to raise her eyebrows at him expectantly. Obviously, she intends to change into it before leaving, and she’s waiting for him to turn around. He has exactly zero interest in seeing her naked, but it’s a very stupid man who gives his back to a woman like Raina. Luckily, he has a third option.

“I’ll be in the hall,” he says flatly. “You have three minutes.”

She gives him a slightly unsettling smile. “That’s all I need.”

He grabs his backpack and his gun from the sink and then ducks out into the hallway. He’s only been waiting for thirty seconds when one of the HYDRA agents approaches from the other end of the hall.

“Facility’s clear, sir,” the man says.

“Good,” he says. “Wipe the security feed, then hit the self-destruct. You’ll have ten minutes to clear out.”

“Yes, sir.” The HYDRA agent salutes him, then pauses. “What about the rest of the prisoners, sir?”

“Let them out,” Grant orders. “No reason to make it obvious who our target was.”

“Understood, sir.”

Raina exits her cell as the HYDRA agent walks away. In addition to the dress Garrett bought for her, she’s wearing stockings and heels that he’s pretty sure weren’t in the box. She catches him looking and gives him another one of her unsettling smiles.

“I have my ways,” she says.

“Right,” he says. As weird as that is, he doesn’t actually care all that much. “Come on.”

He leads the way out of the facility and to the small transport parked just outside the perimeter. The HYDRA agents will be returning to their usual base, rather than accompanying him to Havana. HYDRA _did_ hand full control of a fair-sized unit to Garrett, but those agents are currently attacking the Cube. The strike team here in Arizona with him was a one-time-only loan, and is therefore no longer Grant’s problem.

Raina is quiet the whole way to the transport. She keeps her head tipped back and her eyes closed—presumably enjoying the sunshine after several months spent locked in a cell—but her steps never falter. Not until they reach the transport, and she sees the blood staining the floor between the seats.

It’s Hand’s blood, of course. He’s had plenty of time to clean it, but never the inclination.

Raina stares at the bloodstain for a long moment, presumably contemplating the possibility that this is all a trap, and then steps daintily over it.

“Where are we going?” she asks, settling into a seat.

“To meet the Clairvoyant,” he says, and continues on into the cockpit.

He gets them off the ground and sets their course for Havana, then hesitates. Does he really want to go join Raina in the back? On the one hand, he’s really not in the mood for conversation. On the other, he finished his book on the flight over, and the last thing he wants right now is to be left alone with his thoughts.

To the back it is, then.

“It’ll be about ten hours,” he informs Raina as he sits down across from her.

She folds her hands on her knee and smiles pleasantly at him. There’s something more than a little unnerving about this woman, and, not for the first time, Grant seriously wonders about Garrett’s taste in employees.

“Ten hours,” Raina says. “And then we’ll see the Clairvoyant?”

“That’s right,” he says.

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Have you been working for him for very long, Agent Ward?”

“Longer than you have. Why?”

“Just curious,” she says, with another pleasant smile. “I had no idea.”

The way she keeps smiling at him is a little disquieting. “I was undercover.”

“You helped rescue Agent Coulson,” she reminds him. “ _Before_ I could get the answers we needed from him.”

“I was undercover,” he repeats. “I had to act as an Agent of SHIELD, not a Centipede asset.”

“That must have been very difficult,” she muses.

She’s definitely trying to work him—trying to get inside his head and see what makes him tick. He knows, from Coulson’s report, that she managed to talk him into getting into that memory machine of his own free will. _That_ had to have been difficult. Raina’s an accomplished manipulator, and while Grant doesn’t doubt his own skills…

He’s far off his game at the moment. His struggle with his emotions regarding Jemma and everything that’s happened this week has him off balance. It took him way too long to realize what Raina’s up to, and he can’t guarantee that he won’t give her anything if he allows this conversation to continue.

“Not really,” he shrugs, and stands. “The Clairvoyant’s got a lot of work waiting for you. You might wanna get some sleep.”

“Maybe,” Raina agrees.

He can feel her eyes on him as he retreats to the cockpit, and it sends a chill up his spine. That woman is _seriously_ creepy.

He settles into the pilot’s seat, but doesn’t bother to disengage the autopilot. He doesn’t mind piloting—actually enjoys it, sometimes—but it will be a very long, very dull flight to Havana, and there’s no reason to subject himself to that when he doesn’t have to.

Honestly, he should probably take his own advice. They’ll be raiding the Fridge just as soon as they have what they need from the attack on the Cube—assuming that that team is successful—and he hasn’t had any real sleep in days. He slept a little on the flight to Havana, after what happened at the Hub, but aside from that…

He pushes away the memory of the last decent sleep he got—in his bunk on the Bus, with Jemma draped over him—forcefully. He can’t afford to linger on that. He can’t afford to linger on _her_. He has a job to do, and that’s that.

What he should be focusing on is what’s coming next, not what he’s left behind. And what’s coming next is an assault on SHIELD’s most secure facility. He needs some rest.

He’s not crazy about the idea of sleeping when he’s got a woman he barely knows—and definitely doesn’t trust—right in the next compartment, but it can’t be helped. In any case, he’s confident in his ability to take her if she makes a move against him.

And, logically speaking, she probably won’t. After all, she wants to meet the Clairvoyant, and he’s taking her to him. Without Grant, all she’ll have to go on is the location programmed into the autopilot—and Havana’s not a small city.

She won’t make a move. And if she does, he can take her. He’s got nothing to worry about.

Grant crosses his arms, leans back in his seat, and falls into a light doze.

\---

He wakes just in time to land the transport—one thing the autopilot _can’t_ manage, hence the handy alert built into the system—at an airfield just outside the city. It’s a very _small_ airfield, which makes it lucky that he’s flying such a small transport. The Bus wouldn’t have been able to fit.

He doesn’t know whether or not Raina slept on the flight, but the hours seem to have eliminated her urge to converse with him. She’s silent as she follows him off the transport and to the car he’s got waiting.

She’s quiet and still on the drive to Ernesto’s, but he can practically see her anticipation building. She honestly believes that Garrett is psychic, and she’s very anxious to meet him. He wonders how she’ll take the truth. If she takes it badly, they might be in trouble—crossing her off won’t be a problem, but replacing her will. There’s a reason that Grant was sent to break her out of the containment facility instead of just recruiting a new head for the Centipede project.

Raina’s the best person for the job. It would be both difficult and inconvenient to replace her. So he hopes she takes the truth well.

The project really can’t afford any more delays.

\---

Raina takes the news of Garrett’s deception fairly well. She’s angry, at first—she actually calls Garrett a fraud right to his face, which is impressively gutsy—but her anger fades in favor of resigned acceptance soon enough.

Garrett gets a kick out of the barber chair lowering slowly into the basement, so he sends Raina down that way and follows, but it’s all a little too cliché for Grant, so he takes the stairs.

When he reaches the basement, he finds Raina wandering around, exploring the base, while Garrett waits for him at a table covered in blueprints.

“Heard from Kaminsky and his crew while you were gone,” Garrett tells him. “They’re on their way.”

Grant examines the blueprints, taking in the notes scribbled in the margins, and then looks up at Garrett.

“You have a plan, sir?”

“Oh, I’ve got a thought or two,” he grins. “Let’s see if you can do any better.”

\---

They’re doing a final run-through of their plan to storm the Fridge when the phone Grant took from Hand—which they’ve been using to communicate with HYDRA—begins to ring. He picks it up and checks the display.

“It’s Coulson,” he tells Garrett.

“By all means,” Garrett invites.

He steps away from the table and takes a moment to center himself, falling back into the persona of Grant Ward, Agent of SHIELD. Then he answers the phone.

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

“Well, that was going to be my question,” Jemma says, voice light and teasing. “Minus the _sir_ , of course.”

For a moment, he can’t breathe. All of the emotions he’s spent the past three days shutting down threaten to surface. He pushes them back down forcefully.

“Jemma,” he says, flicking a significant glance at Garrett, who straightens from his position leaning over the blueprints. “Is everything okay?”

“We’re fine,” she promises. “But Coulson asked me to let you know that Grant Ward no longer exists.”

He pauses, briefly thrown. The only meaning for that he can think of is that his cover has been blown, but there’s no way Jemma would sound so calm and so pleasant if she knew the truth about him, so…

“Sorry?” he asks, as Garrett wanders away to sit down.

“Skye’s in the process of wiping all of our identities,” Jemma expands. He can hear the smile in her voice, but underneath it, she sounds tired. “We’ve all been named terrorists, you know, and an American colonel was sent to take control of the Hub. We managed to escape before he arrived, but Coulson wants us all off the grid.”

“Makes sense,” he says, and it does. It’s kind of overkill, in his opinion, but Coulson’s not used to operating without the full force of SHIELD behind him. It’s understandable.

Also understandable is that the United States military is after all of SHIELD. They’ll probably just toss everyone into prison for interrogation at their leisure. Who cares about the innocent, misguided SHIELD agents in the face of all of the HYDRA agents who have been operating under everyone’s noses for all these years?

It’s inconvenient, but it also provides a handy excuse, and he hurries to take advantage of the opportunity. The longer he can explain away his absence, the better.

“Agent Hand picked up some Navy jets in the vicinity,” he lies. “She has us taking the long route to the Fridge just to be safe.”

“Good,” she says. “It’s best to be cautious. You did hear me, though, didn’t you? All record of your existence has been _erased_.”

“It’s not the first time my identity’s been compromised,” he dismisses. Then, before she can ask about that, he continues. “Have any idea where Coulson has us headed?”

“No,” she sighs. “In fact, I’m not sure _he_ knows. We left in a bit of a hurry.”

“To avoid the colonel, right,” he says. “How are things otherwise?”

“We’re _fine_ , Grant,” she says, in a tone of fond exasperation. “Well, I say fine…we have limited fuel, which is decreasing by the moment, since the fuel line’s damaged, but Agent Triplett says he can fix it as soon as we land. So, it’s nothing to worry about.”

That’s debatable, and he’s a little concerned, but at least he’s got confirmation that Trip left the Hub with them. Not that he ever doubted it, but it’s good to hear.

“So, Trip stuck with you?” he asks.

“I had to vouch for him to Coulson, but yes, he did,” she confirms. “He’s been hovering constantly since you left the Hub. You wouldn’t know anything about that, now would you?”

“Nope,” he says, in a deliberately unconvincing tone. “Not a clue.”

“Of course you don’t,” Jemma says, amused. Then she sighs. “Well, I just wanted to update you. I’ll let you know when Coulson decides on a destination.”

He wants desperately to prolong the conversation. He’s been doing his best not to think of her since he left the Hub, with varying levels of success. He knows, even though she doesn’t, that they’re on a timer again. But instead of counting down to their meeting, like the one on her wrist, this one is ticking off the time left before she finds out the truth about what she’s done.

There’s only so much time—days, minutes, hours—until Jemma hates him. Until the warmth in her voice fades to be replaced by disgust and betrayal.

But he has no good reason to continue the conversation, so, reluctantly, he lets it go.

“Good,” he says. “I’ll catch up with you when I can.”

“Please do,” she says. “In the meantime, be careful?”

“You, too,” he says. He hesitates, mindful of Garrett sitting behind him and blatantly eavesdropping, then rolls his eyes at himself. He should take every opportunity to say this while he can, because it won’t be long before Jemma doesn’t believe it. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” Jemma says, voice soft with affection.

His throat is tight as he slides the phone into his pocket. He knows that saving Garrett was the right decision, but it’s difficult. After six months of pretty much constant contact, getting one phone call in three days—and knowing that soon he won’t even have that—is torture. Actually, having been tortured on more than one occasion, he can safely say that this is worse.

Torture ends eventually. This won’t.

“Man,” Garrett laughs. “That straight version of you is something else.”

Grant swallows and turns around, walking over to join Garrett. He’s a little too restless to sit, so he leans against a chair, elbows braced against the seat back.

“Tricking your soulmate,” Garrett continues. “I don’t even think Romanoff could pull that one.”

“Well, it wasn’t without its complications,” Grant says. Despite his best efforts, a little bit of his anger leaks into his voice.

There’s a conversation that he and Garrett need to have. They haven’t had the time for it, thus far, but it needs to happen. Because there hasn’t been much _tricking_ involved in Grant’s relationship with Jemma, not really. And the biggest deception—the biggest lie he had to tell, aside from the whole HYDRA thing—was entirely Garrett’s fault.

“Oh, come on,” Garrett groans, standing. “You’re not still upset about _that_.”

“A kidnapping attempt was not part of the plan,” Grant reminds him.

“There was no way of predicting that you’d meet your _soulmate_ on the first day,” Garrett says. “And that kidnapping attempt was just a warning.”

And insurance in case Garrett ever got captured, which is exactly what happened. Grant knows that the kidnapping attempt worked for them in more than one way. But he spent more than a month watching Jemma suffer because of those bruised ribs, and he can’t just let it slide.

“Which I appreciate,” he says. “But Jemma was in pain for _weeks_ because of your warning. I don’t appreciate your methods.”

“Hey,” Garrett shrugs. “If the job was easy…”

“There was nothing fun about that,” Grant snaps.

Garrett is silent for a long moment, just looking steadily at Grant, and for a second he thinks he might have pushed it too far. Then Garrett sighs.

“All right, I admit,” he says. “That got a little out of hand. I gave them orders not to hurt her, but.” He shrugs. “HYDRA goons, right? What can you do?”

Grant pushes away from the chair he’s been leaning against as Garrett starts to walk away. “Where are you going?”

“Come on,” Garrett says instead of answering.

Grant follows.

“I was going to save this for later,” Garrett tells him as he leads the way through the base. “But, hell, you’ve earned it.”

“Earned what?” he asks. He has no idea how they got from arguing about the kidnapping attempt against Jemma to this—or even what _this_ is.

Garrett comes to a stop outside of a closed door. It’s one of the new additions to the base, so Grant has no guess as to what might be behind it. He’s completely shocked and more than a little pleased (although he’s careful to keep both off his face) when Garrett opens the door to remain a room in which three men are waiting.

He’s never met these men, but he knows who they are. He studied them—studied their ‘autopsy’ photos and the screen grabs from the Conservatory security cameras—and memorized their faces months ago. These are the men who tried to kidnap Jemma.

“As soon as our reinforcements get back from hitting the Cube, we’re heading for the Fridge,” Garrett tells him. “You’ve got until then to do whatever you like.”

“What the hell does _that_ mean?” the tallest of the men demands, surging to his feet. The other two follow suit.

Grant ignores them for a minute to look at Garrett, judging his sincerity. “Really?”

“Really,” Garrett confirms. “Whatever you like. I’ll have a disposal team standing by.”

The three men shift uneasily, exchanging wary looks, and the skinny one makes what he probably thinks is a subtle move for his gun.

Grant knows, from Jemma and Skye’s accounts of the attempted kidnapping, that two of these men never laid hands on Jemma. They were too busy getting their asses kicked by Skye to get anywhere near Jemma. Those two men—the weasel-ish one and the skinny one—he’ll give mercy. He’ll cross them off quickly—just snap their necks and have done with it, because there’s no reason to make them suffer.

The third man, though…

The big one, with an old, ugly scar on his face that Jemma described in perfect detail (and a newer one, which might actually be from the branch Skye hit him with, and damn if that doesn’t make Grant weirdly proud), is the one that hit Jemma. The one that bruised her ribs.

Grant spent five weeks watching Jemma suffer from that pain. Five weeks of having to pull her away from her work when the pain got to be too much. Five weeks of helping her with simple tasks—with her hair, her clothes, her shoes—while she was driven to tears by the frustration of being unable to do them herself.

The emotions he’s been carefully suppressing, already close to breaking through thanks to that phone call, surge forward. The rage, which he mostly has a handle on these days, rises to the surface. And, for once, he’s got the perfect outlet for it.

There’s no way that he can match the pain he felt, watching Jemma struggle and suffer through those five horrible weeks. It’s not possible to inflict that level of physical harm on this man.

But he’ll definitely do his best.

“So, what do you say?” Garrett asks, clapping him on the shoulder. “Am I forgiven?”

“Yes, sir,” Grant says. He starts to step into the room, then pauses. He pulls the hard drive he took from Skye—the one containing all of Jemma’s research—out of his pocket and hands it over. “Here. For Raina.”

“Is this what I think it is?” Garrett asks, examining the hard drive with a grin.

“Jemma’s research,” he confirms. “All of it. On the Centipede serum, the GH-325, and everything else the team encountered.”

Garrett grins and tucks the hard drive away. “Good work, son.”

He claps him on the shoulder again, then gestures grandly into the room, where the three would-be kidnappers are obviously on edge, their hands on their weapons. They’ll be putting up a fight. Good.

“Have at it,” Garrett invites, stepping away from the door. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to go.”

“Thank you, sir,” Grant says, and enters the room. He closes the door firmly behind him, then turns to face the three men inside with a smile that has two of them stepping back and the third actually drawing his gun.

“So,” he says. “Who’s first?”

\---

He’s just about finished with the man who hurt Jemma—by which he means, the man is weak and unable to withstand his rightful punishment, and is probably only moments from death—when Garrett returns.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Garrett says regretfully. “But Kaminsky called. He’s five minutes out and he’s got the chopper. It’s time to move.”

“That’s all right,” Grant says, straightening. “I was just about done here, anyway.”

He looks down at the man on the ground, taking in his condition, and estimates that the blood loss will kill him in the next three minutes—if his heart doesn’t give out before then, that is; this man has no tolerance for pain at all.

Either way, he’ll be dead in less than five minutes. Grant could speed that up—it would barely take a fraction of a second to strike a killing blow—but decides not to. Why cut short his suffering?

Jemma was in pain for five weeks. This man didn’t even make it an hour.

He steps over the man—and his two friends, whose necks he snapped in his first three minutes in the room—and approaches the door.

“Feel better?” Garrett asks, looking him over.

Grant looks back at the man with the scar, considering. “Actually…yeah.”

His rage, though still present (as it has been since he touched the berserker staff, and possibly always will be), is muted. So is his grief and his longing for Jemma. He’s feeling completely settled for the first time since—since when? He doesn’t even remember the last time he felt this calm.

“Glad to hear it,” Garrett grins. He makes a move like he’s about to clap Grant on the arm, then stops and grimaces a little. “You might wanna take a shower before you suit up, son. You’ve got a little blood…everywhere.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agrees. It’s true; things got a little…messy. “Did you get Raina set up?”

For lack of a better option, he wipes his hands on his jeans as he follows Garrett out of the room. He’s heading straight for the shower, but there’s no reason to leave blood on every doorknob and hanging divider on the way there.

“Yep,” Garrett says. “She’s very eager to get started. She’ll have things up and running by the time we get back.” They come to a stop in the main room. “Go on and get your shower. I’ll debrief Kaminsky.”

Grant nods and heads for the living quarters. Or, rather, what used to be the living quarters. They’ve been converted into more of a barracks than anything else, in deference to the fact that this base is suddenly holding a lot more than just two people.

The spare clothes and gear he’s had stashed here for years are still present, though, which is all he really cares about. He grabs his shower kit and a change of clothes—the bare bones of tac gear—and makes his way to the showers.

That was a nice, strangely calming, diversion, but it’s time to get back to work.

\---

After his shower, he returns to the main room to find that Kaminsky and his people have arrived. The room is swarming with HYDRA agents in varying stages of preparedness. Garrett is moving among them, checking gear and giving orders, while Raina hangs back, watching him.

Grant joins her, after a moment’s thought. He wants to gauge her mental state—determine just how much the revelation of Garrett’s deception has shaken her.

“You were disappointed,” he observes. “That he wasn’t a real Clairvoyant.”

“There was a question I would have asked,” she says softly. Then she turns to look at Grant. “You’ve known him a long time?”

She’s trying to work him again.

“Since I was a teenager,” he says, glancing at Garrett. “He pulled me out of a hell. Saved me from myself.” He steps back a little, giving Raina a smirk. “So, now do you know me?” He leans against the brick column behind him. “Know how to work me?”

“I’m just curious,” she claims, with a little smirk of her own. “If I wanted to _work_ you, I’d ask you about Coulson and his team and…how you managed to gain their trust.”

His first instinct is to lie, because he gained the team’s trust through Jemma and the last thing he wants to do is bring Jemma to Raina’s attention. But he knows that lying would be just as telling as the truth—after all, there’s no way Raina doesn’t know that Jemma is Grant’s soulmate. Leaving her out of it, dodging around the truth, would give Raina just as much—if not more—ammo than being honest.

So honesty it is.

“Jemma,” he says plainly. When Raina gives him an expectant look, he continues. “Simmons. Team biochemist. She’s my soulmate.”

“I’ve heard,” Raina smiles softly. “Congratulations.”

He’s…not going to address that. “Jemma trusted me at once, because I’m her soulmate. The rest of the team followed. It…humanized me. Being protective of her, obsessing about her safety, hovering in the lab even when she _wasn’t_ in danger…that, and jumping out of the plane to save her life, all convinced the team that I was trustworthy.”

“They never suspected?” Raina asks doubtfully.

“Agent May was the primary threat,” he says. “But she has an untrained, vulnerable soulmate, too. We, uh, _bonded_ over it.”

They also bonded over May teaching him to control the rage the berserker staff gave him, but he’s leaving that out. His rage issues are a weakness, and he doesn’t want to give Raina any information on his weaknesses that she might not already have.

He has no idea how much Garrett told her about him—about the team—before she was locked up. It’s inconvenient.

“With Jemma came Fitz,” he continues. “He was never a threat. _Skye_ was the unknown variable. Being her SO put me in a position to be a sounding board.” He shrugs a little. “Get an idea what she was thinking.”

“And Coulson?” Raina asks. “He wasn’t skeptical when you pressured him to join?”

He laughs, just a little. “ _He_ pressured me. You’d be surprised how often you get invited to the party when you don’t wanna go.”

He mocks himself—or, more accurately, the persona he used with Coulson and the team—repeating word for word the argument that got him assigned to Coulson’s team. Raina watches him thoughtfully.

“I gave Coulson a person he thought he could help,” he concludes. “Plane was full of ‘em.”

“It’s that simple?” she asks skeptically. “You _really_ felt nothing for them?” She shakes her head. “I spent time with Coulson. He’s a good man. Someone who’d lay down his life for you. Don’t you _owe_ a man like that something?”

 _Coulson_ abandoned Jemma when they were surrounded by enemy agents. _Coulson_ spent the past six months repeatedly endangering the team as a whole. _Coulson_ would let the entire team die to save Skye’s life.

Whether Coulson is a good man is certainly debatable, but Grant will admit that he does owe him something. After all, Coulson let a lot of things slide—a lot of protocol violations. Any other lead agent would have had Grant and Jemma’s exemption revoked the first time Jemma spent the night in Grant’s bunk. Coulson let it happen for months.

Still, even that wasn’t entirely unselfish. He all but admitted, shortly before his kidnapping by Centipede, that he was living vicariously through Grant and Jemma, since his own soulmate thinks he’s dead.

Grant owes Coulson _something_ , but he owes Garrett a lot more. He owes Garrett _everything_.

When he says so, Raina pins him with a searching look.

“And Agent Simmons?” she asks. “You owe Garrett enough to abandon your soulmate?”

“I haven’t abandoned her,” he denies. He should let it go and walk away—she’s working him right now, and he’s letting her—but he can’t let that stand. “I’m doing this for Jemma as much as for Garrett.”

She frowns, slightly. “How so?”

“Jemma is loyal to SHIELD,” he says. He forces himself to relax, leaning back against the column again. “As long as it exists, in any form, she’ll be a part of it.” He shrugs. “Until we bring down SHIELD—which we will—Jemma is in danger. This is for her own good.”

“Is it?” Raina asks.

He doesn’t like the smile she’s wearing, knowing with a touch of smug, but before he can say anything, Garrett approaches.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” Grant says, pushing away from the wall.

“Good,” Garrett says. He looks at Raina. “We’ll be back soon. Don’t throw any wild parties while we’re gone.”

She doesn’t say anything. Grant gets the feeling that Raina is still trying to figure out how to work Garrett, who’s obviously far from what she was expecting the Clairvoyant to be. He wishes her luck; even _he_ doesn’t always understand Garrett.

“Let’s move,” Garrett orders. “We’ve got a Fridge to raid.”

\---

It turns out that getting the helicopter was a wise precaution, because after the small transport—piloted by one of Kaminsky’s men—drops Grant and a handcuffed Garrett on the roof, the guards refuse to let them in. They know to expect Garrett, but apparently Hand left orders not to let anyone in unless she was present.

Inconvenient, but not unexpected. That’s what the helicopter is for.

Grant goes a few rounds arguing with the guards, who call his bluff about calling Hand back to oversee their entrance to the Fridge. He raises the walkie-talkie just as the helicopter appears on the other side of the roof and opens fire.

The doors to the Fridge are bulletproof, so the guards are safe, but Grant dives for cover, pulling Garrett along with him. He takes a few shots at the helicopter with his sidearm, just for show, then drags Garrett back to the doors as the helicopter moves to circle back around.

“Open the door!” he shouts.

“It’s against protocol!” the guard hollers back.

“I don’t care about your protocol,” Grant snaps. “Open the door! You’re gonna get me killed!”

After a moment’s hesitation, the other guard says, “Screw it!” and opens the door. The helicopter opens fire again as Grant shoves Garrett in and then follows. They back onto the elevator behind them, the guards serving as useful (but ultimately unnecessary) shields as the doors slowly close.

One of the guards uses his lanyard to activate the elevator, and Grant watches them, considering. He needs to cross these two off before he and Garrett can move to step two of the plan. But they’re in full body armor. The only vulnerable spots are their faces. He needs to get them both facing him before he can cross them off—and he needs to get them both at once, so they don’t have the chance to alert security.

“Took you boys long enough,” he says.

“Need to radio security,” the one on the left says, ignoring him.

“How the hell did HYDRA know you and Hand were coming?” the other one asks.

“We told ‘em,” Garrett says cheerfully.

Grant sighs as the two guards turn around, shocked. He draws his sidearm and backup and shoots them both in the face before they can do anything but stare, then frowns at Garrett. That could’ve ended badly; if they’d been the shoot first type instead of the stare gormlessly type, he and Garrett might’ve both been killed.

“A little warning next time?” he requests, exasperated, as Garrett breaks his fake cuffs. “I mean, they had automatic weapons.”

“I couldn’t resist,” Garrett claims, digging through Grant’s backpack. He hands Grant a gas mask. “It was too good a line.”

Grant shakes his head, because that’s just typical Garrett, as Garrett tosses him a smoke grenade, then he and Garrett both pull the gas masks on.

“Let’s go shopping,” Garrett says.

It’s time for step two.

Step two is to use tear gas and smoke grenades to sow confusion so that they can make it to the nerve center unopposed, and that’s exactly what they do. Admittedly, walking through the halls wearing gas masks while everyone around them coughs and chokes is slightly conspicuous, but the clean air they’re breathing gives them enough of an advantage that, even as outnumbered as they are, they’re able to cross off anyone who makes a move for them.

Inside the nerve center, they deactivate all of the Fridge’s security: disabling and wiping the cameras, unlocking all of the external doors, and disarming the various alarms. Not that anyone is likely to respond to those alarms, SHIELD being in the state it is, but they haven’t survived this long by being incautious.

Once the doors are unlocked, their HYDRA reinforcements flood the building, and Grant and Garrett abandon the nerve center in favor of the first of their two main objectives.

Their first objective is a particular storeroom, one which Garrett calls the Toystore. Grant doesn’t actually know what’s inside of it; he’s never had occasion to spend any time at the Fridge, and therefore has never been read in on its contents—aside from the prisoners, that is.

Garrett knows what’s in the Toystore, of course, but he’s refused to share the information, insisting that it will make a nice surprise. Grant’s…honestly a little worried about that.

The Toystore is far below them, on the third floor, so they return to the elevator. By the time they reach the third floor, the air is clear enough for them to remove their gas masks, which they do with relief. Gas masks are incredibly useful, but they’re also incredibly uncomfortable. Grant can’t help but pity their HYDRA escort, very few of whom make any move to remove their own masks.

“First time I came down here was to lock up Johnny Horton,” Garrett reminisces. “Ever heard of him?”

Grant shakes his head.

“Guy somehow gave himself these lion’s paws for hands,” Garrett makes a little clawing gesture. “Can you imagine?”

“That doesn’t seem _practical_ ,” Grant muses, trying to picture it. All he can imagine is a guy with lion’s paws trying desperately to turn a doorknob. It’s honestly kind of hilarious.

Garrett chuckles. “Everybody’s got their own weird thing, I suppose.” He stops, motioning to the intersecting hallway. “Here we go.”

It’s a very short hall, leading to a set of locked double doors. None of the Fridge’s internal locks are on any kind of network—they’re each on their own, individual circuit, which means there was no way to disable them from the nerve center the way he disabled the external locks.

Luckily, it’s not a difficult problem to deal with.

“You know the Slingshot program?” Garrett asks as he plants a miniature explosive on the lock.

“Yeah,” Grant says. “That’s how SHIELD gets rid of its dangerous technology.”

“Do they, now?” Garrett asks smugly.

They turn their backs to the doors and cover their ears as the explosive beeps and then blows. The explosion is minor, but it’s enough to break the lock, and they turn back around as the doors slide open.

“Welcome to the Toystore,” Garrett says, and leads the way into the room.

At first glance, it’s not much. Grant looks around the large room, taking in the numerous shelves loaded with large grey boxes, as Garrett orders their HYDRA escort to grab everything they can—especially if it looks dangerous or, even better, alien.

“It’s all here,” Grant realizes, as he reads some of the tags on the boxes. “Slingshot’s a fake.”

He…probably should have guessed that, honestly.

“We shot a lot of empty rockets into space,” Garrett tells him as they head deeper into the room. “And maybe everyone once in a while, they put a monkey in one for kicks.”

The mention of a monkey causes a strange pang, as Grant’s mind goes straight to Jemma and Fitz. He brushes it off impatiently.

“You really think Fury would give away all these goodies?” Garrett asks.

It’s true, he definitely should have questioned the Slingshot program. In his defense, if he had questioned _every_ even slightly suspicious thing SHIELD did, he never would have had time to do anything else.

“We’re talking about the same guy that messed around with Tesseract technology and sparked an alien invasion,” Garrett continues, a little absently. He’s obviously searching the shelves for something specific, and after a moment, he grins. “There you are.”

He opens the box—it’s latched, but not locked, which strikes Grant as a little sloppy—and smiles down at the contents. Whatever’s inside, it’s giving off a strange blue glow, and Grant moves closer, curious.

“Remember this?” Garrett asks.

Grant leans against the shelf next to him and looks inside the box. Huh.

“Yeah,” he says. “We found it in Peru. Some sort of plasma particle beam.”

The sight of it causes another pang, which he brushes off as Garrett pulls the 0-8-4 out of the box.

“Plasma particle beam my ass,” Garrett says, weighing the 0-8-4 in his arms. “I look at it more as a gold card.”

He switches it on, and Grant—remembering what it did to the Bus—takes a few steps back as it powers up. The beam it lets out blows a large hole in the wall, and Grant ducks as concrete goes flying while Garrett laughs.

“Perfect!” he exclaims, delighted. “This is just what we need.”

“You might wanna be careful with that, sir,” Grant warns, straightening. “It’s a little…sensitive.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Garrett says. He looks around the room, then nods to himself, apparently satisfied. “You stay here and supervise these goons. I’ll go take care of step three.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agrees.

Step three is the release of the prisoners. It’s partially just to cause chaos—there are a lot of dangerous people locked up in the Fridge, especially in the Ice Box—but also a targeted attack. There’s one specific prisoner whose freedom will do them a lot of good.

Marcus Daniels, a gifted who was locked up after using his powers to stalk a woman, is their second main objective in raiding the Fridge. He’ll be a perfect distraction for Coulson, since the woman in question—the victim of his stalking—just happens to be Coulson’s soulmate. The moment Coulson hears that Daniels is out, he’ll head straight to his soulmate’s side—giving Grant and Garrett that much longer to work without Coulson’s interference.

Sooner or later, Coulson will realize that Garrett is still free, that Grant is a traitor, and that Centipede is still active. But the longer that takes, the better, and Daniels being loose will do a lot to delay that realization.

Grant spends a while digging through the boxes alongside the HYDRA agents. There’s a lot of stuff in here; some of it alien, some of it not, but all of it very, very dangerous. He even finds the berserker staff, making him grateful for the gloves he’s wearing as he pulls it out of the box.

He’d like to leave it here—or, better yet, smash it to pieces—but he knows it’s a valuable tool. So, regretfully, he returns it to the box and motions for it to be added to the _take_ pile.

The Fridge has plenty of planes and transports, both large and small, and they’re taking about half of them. The other half will be left for HYDRA, who will be taking control of the Fridge as soon as they move out. Grant supervises the transfer of the items they’ve decided to take onto the various transports—only three or four per plane; they don’t want to put all of their eggs in one basket, after all—and then, once the process is complete, gives Kaminsky’s second-in-command the order to call in HYDRA.

Once he does that, he heads for the elevator, because he’s suddenly remembered something else that might serve them well—something he’s pretty sure Garrett doesn’t know about. Or, at least, doesn’t know the location of.

He takes the elevator down to the deepest basement level, after ordering a passing HYDRA agent to inform Garrett of his whereabouts. He’s glad he took the time to memorize the blueprints Garrett showed him earlier, because it makes it easier for him to visualize the location of the vault he’s looking for.

It’s not on any blueprints or listed in any records, but he knows that the Gravitonium that nearly destroyed Malta is in a vault beneath his feet. Coulson told him its general location months ago, after the incident in Malta, so that he could reassure Jemma that no one else would die for it.

And, thanks to a little careful prodding, Coulson gave him the _exact_ location a few days ago, when arguing that HYDRA would never be able to get their hands on it.

“Grant!” Garrett calls behind him, just as he’s reaching the spot directly above the vault holding the Gravitonium. “Come on! We gotta roll; chopper’s almost full.”

“There it is,” Grant says, pointing at the 0-8-4.

“What the hell you doing?” Garrett asks.

“You mind?” Grant asks, taking the 0-8-4 from him. “You might wanna take a step back.”

Garrett doesn’t move. “I’m not following.”

“Coulson told me there was a little something hidden down below,” Grant tells him.

“Hate to tell you,” Garrett says. “But, this is the bottom floor. I’ve seen the blueprints with my own eyes.”

“Care to make it interesting?” Grant suggests, a little amused. He knows for a fact that the Gravitonium is here. There’s no harm in getting something a little extra out of it.

“Loser buys dinner,” Garrett declares.

“Perfect,” Grant says, and activates the 0-8-4. “I’m so sick of the crap we ate on that plane.”

He blasts through the floor as Garrett turns away and covers his ears. The explosion is large and effective, and when the smoke clears, the case holding the Gravitonium is perfectly visible through the hole in the floor.

Garrett crouches to get a better look, and Grant follows suit.

“Well,” Garrett grins. “Hello, gorgeous.”

“Thought you’d like that,” Grant says, smugly. “And that’s not all.”

“No?” Garrett asks, looking away from the Gravitonium to raise his eyebrows at Grant.

“That hard drive I gave you,” he says. “Has the plans to weaponize this.”

Garrett laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “All right, son. You win.” He straightens and motions some HYDRA agents over. “Now, let’s get this beauty out of its cage and get the hell out of here.”

\---

Back at the base, Garrett is jubilant. Grant spent the drive from the airfield recounting everything he knows about the capabilities of the Gravitonium device that Quinn and Hall designed, and Garrett definitely likes what he’s heard.

“I’ve never been so happy to buy a man a steak dinner in my life,” he says as they reach the bottom of the stairs.

“Wait ‘til you see the bill,” Grant advises him, amused. The food on the Bus wasn’t _all_ bad, and he’s not a picky eater, in any case, but it did get repetitive after a while. And, considering what he’s sacrificed on Garrett’s behalf, he’s not going to feel any guilt at all in running up a _very_ large bill.

Raina stalks out of the lab area and up to Garrett while Grant pauses to drop his back pack and his vest on a conveniently placed table.

“Why the long face?” Garrett asks.

“There’s a complication with the hard drive,” Raina tells him.

Garrett laughs humorlessly. “I don’t like complications.”

“This one involves Skye,” she says flatly.

It turns out that Skye encrypted the hard drive: if anyone but her attempts to access it, it will erase all of its contents.

He really should have predicted that. At the time, he was a little busy trying to suppress his panic for Jemma, but there’s no excuse for the fact that it hasn’t occurred to him since. Of course, that’s mostly because he’s been doing his best not to think of _anyone_ on the team, since thoughts of the team invariably lead to Jemma, and the peace he found from punishing Jemma’s attackers has long since faded, but…

The point is, it’s a complication. A complication they don’t need.

Three teams have failed to hack the hard drive. The only person who can break Skye’s encryption is Skye herself. Which means they need access to Skye.

Which _means_ that Grant is going to have to go join up with the team again, at least temporarily.

It _should_ be a good thing: a chance to see Jemma again, to spend a little more time with her before she finds out the truth about him. But leaving her was hard enough the first time. A second time will be that much worse.

It won’t be anywhere near easy. And there’s nothing fun about this particular job.

Before they can make any plans, Hand’s phone rings. Grant takes a deep breath, receives a nod of permission from Garrett, and picks it up off the table.

“Hello?” he says.

“Grant,” Jemma breathes. “Oh, thank God.”

Well. That’s not good. She sounds nearly breathless with relief, and there’s no reason for her to be concerned about him, unless she knows that the Fridge fell. He has no idea how she could _possibly_ have found out about it—especially so soon—but it’s the only explanation.

He needs to get on top of this.

“Jemma,” he says. “I was just about to call you.” He hesitates, then continues, careful to insert just the right mix of anger, grief, and exhaustion into his tone. “I’ve got some bad news.”

“HYDRA took the Fridge,” she says. “We heard. Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better,” he says. If he _were_ a loyal SHIELD agent, there’s no way he could have made it out of the Fridge unharmed. Especially since he’s going to have to tell the team that Hand, Chaimson, and Jacobson all went down. They’ll expect him to have tried to save them, which means he can’t be in any kind of good shape if he wants to avoid suspicion. “But I’ll live.”

“Good,” she says, a little faintly. “That’s…good.”

He’s kind of concerned about how shaky she sounds. “Jemma? Are _you_ okay?”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just…when we heard that the Fridge had fallen, I thought maybe…”

“I’m fine,” he promises when she trails off. Of course, it does raise a very good question. “But how did you hear about the Fridge?”

“Oh, right,” Jemma says. “We found a new base. A secret one.”

“A secret base?” he asks, gaining Garrett’s attention. “How? Where?”

“Apparently Director Fury—who did actually die, by the way; Agent Koenig confirmed it—set up this base after the Chitauri invasion and kept it completely secret. Then he programmed the coordinates to display on Coulson’s badge in case anything ever happened.”

That’s…more than a little bizarre.

“Coulson’s badge had coordinates to a secret base that our dead Director set up for him?” he asks. He does it partially to get the story across to Garrett without making it obvious to Jemma that he’s speaking to anyone else, but also to double check his understanding, because that is just…ridiculous.

“Yes, that’s about it,” Jemma confirms. “It’s been…a very strange day.”

“Sounds like,” he agrees, bemused. Seriously, secret coordinates in Coulson’s _badge_?

“However, I imagine yours was much worse,” she frets. “Are you _sure_ you’re all right?”

“I’ve had worse, I promise,” he says.

“That’s hardly comforting,” she mutters, but she does sound a little reassured. “So…what _happened_?”

He hesitates. He’d like a chance to get the story straight in his head before he shares it. If nothing else, he’s going to need to figure out the timing of events and how best to excuse Hand’s death. This is one area where he definitely can’t allow himself to get caught in a lie.

“I think that’s a report I should make in person,” he says. “But…it’s not good.”

“No,” Jemma says quietly. “I don’t imagine it is.” She clears her throat. “I’ll just…get you our coordinates, shall I?”

“It would help,” he says.

“Just a moment,” she says.

There’s a bit of static, and then Jemma speaks again, her voice muffled and words indistinct. He assumes she’s pulled the phone away from her mouth to speak to one of the others, and takes the opportunity to hunt up a piece of paper to record the coordinates on.

Raina has long since wandered away to return to commanding her scientists, while Garrett is in the middle of changing. Grant has no idea why he’s doing that here in the middle of the main room instead of back in the barracks, but whatever.

“Grant?” Jemma asks.

“I’m here,” he says. “You’ve got the coordinates?”

“Yes,” she says, and reads them out.

He writes them down, then considers them. If he’s not mistaken—and he’s fairly certain that he’s not—that would put this secret base in the middle of the Canadian wilderness.

“Canada?” he asks. “Really?”

“It was a surprise to us, as well,” Jemma says, and he can hear her smile.

“I’ll bet,” he says. “All right, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Is the base secure?”

“Yes,” she says. “Completely.”

He’ll be the judge of that. “Well, be careful, anyway.”

“We will,” she promises. “However, I think it’s safe to say that _you_ are in far more danger than the rest of us, so…be safe, please.”

“Always,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

“We’ll be waiting,” she says. “I love you.”

“You, too.”

He hangs up and tucks the phone away. Garrett is just finishing getting dressed, and he tsks.

“Secret base, huh?” he asks. “Sounds just like Fury.”

“Jemma confirmed,” Grant tells him, leaning against a column. “Fury’s out of the picture.”

“Well, that is good news,” Garrett says, pulling on a shirt. “Gives us one less thing to worry about.” He pulls the shirt down a little, then pauses. “Listen, about the girl—”

“Look, I know how much it means to you,” Grant interrupts. “I’ll get it done.”

It won’t be easy. But he owes Garrett everything. He can do this for him.

“Hey, we all have our weaknesses,” Garrett says. “And your soulmate, hey, that’s a big one. We can’t control everything.” He finishes pulling his shirt down and moves a little closer. “So, if you can do this the easy way, without blowing your cover, then by all means.”

He more than appreciates the offer. The longer he can keep his cover intact, the better. And he’s pretty sure he’ll be able to keep his cover intact. Skye trusts him—she won’t see any reason not to give him the codes to unlock the encryption on the hard drive.

“I just need some time alone with her to get the information,” he says.

Technically, it’s not the _information_ he needs to be alone with her to get, it’s the getaway. Once he’s got the codes, he’s going to need an excuse to leave the base and return to Garrett. That’ll be easier if he’s just facing down Skye, rather than the entire team.

“You’ll have it,” Garrett promises, and turns away. “Coulson’ll be busy.” He faces Grant again. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to get the password and get out. After that, well…” He pauses. “Cross off the team and bring the girl to me.”

Grant hesitates.

“Oh, not Jemma, of course,” Garrett assures him lightly. “If you need to bring Skye, you might as well bring your girl, too. I’m sure we can find a safe place to stash her until all this is finished. Then you’ll have all the time in the world to get her to see things your way.”

He’ll _need_ all the time in the world to get Jemma to see things his way, especially if he crosses off the team and kidnaps her. He’ll have to hope the easy way works, because the last thing he wants to do is cross off the team and kidnap Jemma and Skye.

Not only because of how angry it would make Jemma—not even because of his admitted emotional attachment to the rest of the team.

Simply from a logical standpoint, it would be incredibly difficult to kidnap both Skye _and_ Jemma. He’s got nearly a foot and more than ten years of training on both of them, of course, but two to one becomes bad odds when the one doesn’t want to actually _hurt_ the other two. Keeping both of them subdued and under his control would be tricky.

Of course, if he’s taking Jemma, it’s not really _necessary_ to kidnap Skye, is it? After all, it’s _Jemma’s_ research on the hard drive. She probably has it all memorized. And, as someone who _understands_ all of it, she would be a lot more use than Skye.

He’s about to point this out to Garrett, but he finds himself hesitating. For some reason, his mind has gone to Italy, to the nightmare he had their first night there—the nightmare where Garrett ordered him to kill Jemma.

He pictures bringing Jemma here, to their base, and telling her to work with Raina’s scientists in recreating the GH-325. He pictures her refusing, as she unquestionably would. And he pictures Garrett putting a gun in his hand and telling him to take care of Jemma.

He called her a weakness, just now. And Grant knows how Garrett feels about weaknesses.

He hears Jemma’s voice in his ears, the calm, reasonable tone she used when she said, _“You can’t save me from yourself, Grant.”_

“You got your story straight?” Garrett asks.

Grant shoves aside his hesitation. That was just a nightmare. Garrett wouldn’t ask him to kill Jemma. He said himself, just moments ago, that they can’t control everything. He _understands_ that Jemma is a weakness for Grant, and doesn’t hold it against him. He would _never_ give Grant that order, even if Grant brought Jemma all the way here and she refused to help them.

It’s just his exhaustion and his lingering guilt over leaving Jemma getting to him. That’s all.

Still, there’s no point in bringing it up now. With any luck, he’ll be able to do this the easy way and maintain his cover, making the kidnapping of _anyone_ unnecessary.

“Yeah,” he says, and moves away from the column, to a more open area. “We just need to make it believable.”

He told Jemma that he wasn’t in great shape. And even if he hadn’t, the team will expect him to be injured, after (as they’ll presume) fighting his way through the HYDRA forces attacking the Fridge. In his current condition, he’ll never be able to sell the story of surviving an enemy assault.

He’s still got his injuries from what happened at the Hub, of course, but he’ll need more damage— _fresh_ damage—to sell this story. They need to make it convincing.

So he stands still and lets Garrett hit him a few times. Or more than a few. What’s important is that by the end of it, he’s bleeding and bruised enough to look like he fought his way out of certain death. Also, he’s pretty sure he has another broken rib.

Still, it’s necessary. He needs to be in rough shape in order to sell this story. As long as the team has no reason to question him, there’s no reason for him to break cover. He can get through this without burning his bridges—without turning Jemma against him. Of course he can.

Once they’re done, Garrett grips his shoulder for a long moment.

“Good luck, son.”

\---

He takes one of the jump jets they stole from the Fridge, rather than the small transport he left the Hub in. After all, if he arrived at the Fridge to find it under attack, as he’ll be claiming, and stormed the building with Hand, Chaimson, and Jacobson to try and stop HYDRA, there would be little chance of making it all the way back up to the roof to return to the transport after the others were dead. If he got far enough in to see the prisoners escaping—which, of course, he’s going to be claiming, in order to distract Coulson with Daniels—it would be more logical to escape through the hangar.

Thus, he needs one of the Fridge’s planes. He takes a jump jet because it’s the fastest. The sooner he gets to this secret base, the better.

Even in the jump jet, it’s a long flight, and he has plenty of time to not only get his story straight, but also to fall back into his undercover persona. Grant Ward, Agent of SHIELD, is a lot closer to his actual personality than his covers usually are—thanks to his need to build a relationship with Jemma—but he’s different enough that it takes a while to settle back into being him.

He lands the jump jet about a mile away from the coordinates Jemma gave him, just to be safe. It’s freezing outside, the ground buried under several feet of snow, and he’s grateful to find cold weather gear beneath the pilot’s seat. Especially since his current clothing won’t provide much protection from the cold.

He changed into the clothes he left the Hub in before leaving Havana. They’re in pretty rough shape, not to mention stained with more than a little blood, but it’s all part of selling the story. If he shows up in new, clean clothes, it might raise questions.

It’s necessary, and he’s certainly worn worse for far longer, but he’s still looking forward to rejoining the team and getting a fresh change of clothes from his bunk. He’s been a little spoiled by his months with Coulson’s team; he’s gotten used to being able to change his clothes whenever he wants.

…He doesn’t really care about the clothes. He’s just trying not to think about what happens next. Namely, he’s trying not to think about the possibility that he might have to blow his cover in order to get what he needs. As soon as his cover is blown, he loses Jemma, and that’s the last thing he wants.

But he can’t really see a way around it.

He uses the walk to the exact coordinates to center himself, pushing away his worries and focusing on his cover. By the time he reaches the base, he’s fully adopted his Agent of SHIELD persona, and when he’s greeted by an electronic voice, he’s able to identify himself without faltering in the slightest.

“Grant Ward,” he says. “Agent of SHIELD.”

“Welcome, Agent Ward,” the electronic voice says. “We’ve been expecting you.”

The heavy metal door slides open to reveal a long hallway. He doesn’t notice any further detail than that; all of his attention is focused on Jemma, who’s waiting just inside. The sight of her—visibly exhausted but still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen—fills him with an indescribable longing. There are so many ways this could end badly. There are so many ways he could lose her.

He forces through his sudden hesitance and enters the base, removing his ski cap as he does so. The door slides shut behind him.

“Thought you might have given me bad directions,” he says lightly.

“At least _you_ weren’t greeted by a machine gun,” she counters, moving forward. She frowns a little, reaching for his face. “You look awful.”

“That’s fine,” he dismisses. “Because _you_ look beautiful.” He starts to lean down to kiss her, but she stops him with a hand on his chest. “What?”

“A proper hello will have to wait,” she says regretfully. “You’re obviously in need of medical attention.”

“It’s just a scratch,” he says, but he can’t contain a groan at the sharp stab of pain in his ribs as he removes his backpack. “Maybe a broken rib or two.”

Jemma hurries to help him pull his backpack off. “Straight to the lab with you, Grant. No arguments.”

“That’s…probably a good idea,” he admits. “Lead the way.”

She smiles and takes his hand, then pauses.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “I know it’s only been a few days, but…I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” he says, entirely honest.

She squeezes his hand. “Well, you’re here now. And, with any luck, you won’t have to leave us again.”

She starts down the hall, and he falls into step with her, grateful that she doesn’t seem to expect a response.

The fact is, he will be leaving. That’s not in question. The question is _how_ , and he has a sinking suspicion that he knows the answer—and it’s not good.

His luck hasn’t been all that great, lately. Chances are, the easy way won’t work. Which means he’ll have to get the codes the hard way. Even odds that when he leaves, he’ll be bringing Skye with him. And if he has to bring Skye, he’ll definitely be bringing Jemma, as well—most likely against her will.

She might never—in fact, she’ll _probably_ never—forgive him. But how can he pass up the chance to keep her with him—the chance to personally ensure her safety?

How can he pass up the chance to get her away from SHIELD, once and for all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, one last thing. I posted the first chapter of _this untraveled road (where no one wants to go)_ , which is the collection of AUs that I mentioned last time. The first one is kind of dark, so you can give it a miss if that's not your cup of tea, but keep an eye out for upcoming chapters--it's going to be a lot of fun, at least in my opinion!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	19. The Only Light in the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant's goal is to get out of the base with both Jemma and the codes for the hard drive. He faces a few complications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks so much for all of the comments and kudos. They mean a lot.
> 
> Second, I'm so sorry this took so long! This chapter was even harder to write than the last one. I'm not even sure why--it just fought me every step of the way, for some reason.
> 
> Third, this is truly ridiculous in length: at 17,526 words it's 2,000 words more than the next longest chapter (sixteen, in case you're curious). And that's _after_ a significant edit. Originally it was more than 20,000. 
> 
> What I'm saying is I hope you have some time to spare.
> 
> Fourth, a quick and very, very sincere thank you to everyone who voted for me at the Ward/Simmons fic awards on tumblr. I won both favorite multi-chapter fic and favorite author, and I'm both incredibly touched and incredibly stunned. I've never won anything like that before, and it means so much to me. So thank you. 
> 
> Fifth, **warning** for some elements of self-harm. Plus, you know, violence and language and all that. But the self-harm is particularly...present in this chapter.
> 
> Okay, I think that's it! Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

The base is entirely underground, and all of the halls have a distinctly bunker-like feel to them. Grant, who’s had some unpleasant experiences in bunkers, finds it more than a little off-putting. Some effort has been made to cheer the place up—as they pass open doors, he can see that most of the rooms have hanging pictures of beautiful scenery (he counts a lake, a mountain, and what he’s pretty sure is the Amalfi coast all in the same hallway), carefully backlit and framed to give the appearance that they’re actually windows—but honestly, it just makes things worse.

The fact that he’s actually thinking longingly of a basement in Cuba really says a lot about this place.

They’ve been walking for a while—this base must be huge—so he looks down at Jemma.

“Where exactly are we going?”

“To the hangar,” she says. “The Bus is parked there. I’ve got everything set up in the lab.”

“Doesn’t this base have a med station?” he asks, slightly surprised.

“It does,” she confirms. “However, Agent Koenig is a touch…antsy about our presence. Coulson thought it best to give him some space. And the lab does just as well.”

“Koenig?” he asks.

“He’s the agent who runs this base,” she says, which is pretty much what he figured. “Apparently he’s been alone here for a few years.” She pauses and lowers her voice. “It rather shows, I’m afraid.”

“That’s comforting,” he mutters. They’re trusting their security to a recluse? He makes a mental note to access the base’s security center as soon as possible. Not that he plans to stick around for long, but while he does, he needs to be sure that they’re secure.

Jemma smiles a little. “Oh, he’s not so bad. Just a little…enthusiastic. And he seems to be quite the fan of Coulson.”

“What do you mean?”

“He gave Coulson a security lanyard right away,” she says. “The rest of us will apparently be considered on a case-by-case basis. No word yet on how we might go about earning the privilege.”

“Right,” he says. That’s…weird. He looks around as they turn down yet another hallway. Speaking of the rest of them… “Where _is_ the rest of the team?”

“Waiting for us in the lab,” she answers. “Coulson’s very eager to hear your report, but Skye convinced him to give us a moment alone, first.”

“That was nice of her,” he says, surprised.

“Wasn’t it?” she agrees. “She even managed to talk Agent Triplett into staying behind, which wasn’t easy.” She pins him with a stern look. “Exactly what did you say to him, by the way? There’s no call for him to be guarding me in a secure, secret base. Or at all, really.”

“Whether it’s all that secure remains to be seen,” Grant says, ignoring the rest of her statement. He’ll never manage to get her to take her safety as seriously as he does, so there’s no point in trying. “Which reminds me, I’m gonna need you to wrap my ribs.”

She starts to protest, and he squeezes her hand to stop her.

“I know it’s not advisable,” he says. Contrary to popular belief, wrapping injured ribs isn’t actually the best way to treat them. It does provide support for the injury, but it also restricts breathing, which can lead to pneumonia. “But if we have to fight our way out of here, I’ll be more worried about support than the risk of illness.”

“Do you think that’s likely?” she asks as they enter a large, mostly empty hangar. The Bus, which is parked fairly near the door, is dwarfed by the massive space.

Seriously, this base is _huge_. What exactly did Fury have planned for it?

“I think it’s a possibility,” he says. “And I’d rather not take the risk.”

“Very well,” she says reluctantly.

He lets go of her hand as they start up the cargo ramp in order to unzip his jacket. He’s going to need to get it _and_ his shirt off so Jemma can wrap his ribs, and he can’t say he’s looking forward to it. He’s tempted to just ask her to cut his shirt off and, if not for the presence of the rest of the team, actually might have.

After brief greetings, and several expressions of relief that he made it out of the Fridge alive, they get straight to the point. As Trip (being the closest to him in height) helps him out of his shirt, Grant answers Coulson’s silent question.

“Agent Hand is dead,” he says, voice heavy with entirely fake regret. “So are Chaimson and Jacobson.”

“Damn it,” Coulson (who, sure enough, is the only person wearing a lanyard) mutters. “HYDRA?”

Well, technically…

“Yes,” he says.

Coulson sighs. “All right. Start from the beginning, please.”

“Yes, sir,” he agrees, depositing his shirt and his jacket on the lab table and taking a seat on the stool Jemma silently indicates.

She gets to work patching him up as he gives his story to the team. He claims that they picked up Navy jets not far out from the Hub, and therefore spent a day laying low before taking the long way to the Fridge, so as not to lead the United States Military straight to SHIELD’s most secure, and most secret, facility. As far as covers go, it’s not his best work, but he has to account for the missing time somehow.

Luckily, none of the team questions his story. And why would they? They trust him completely. He’s never given them a reason to doubt him.

Before he can start on the (false) events at the Fridge, he’s interrupted by Jemma.

“I’m afraid this might scar,” she murmurs as she dabs at the cut on his cheek.

“Upside,” Skye says. “You’ll look badass. Dangerous.”

There’s a comment on the tip of his tongue about how he looks plenty dangerous even without a scar, but he swallows it down. It’s a little too smug, a little too light-hearted, for his Agent of SHIELD persona. Isn’t it?

He takes a deep breath and re-centers himself as Jemma shoos the hovering Fitz away. It’s only been a few days since the last time he had to immerse himself in this persona, and he’s had a literal _decade_ of practice with it. He shouldn’t be doubting himself now.

“So what then?” Coulson prompts.

He continues his story, claiming that the Fridge was overrun by HYDRA by the time they reached it. He deliberately keeps himself from thinking of the true version of events, knowing that that’s one of the best ways to get caught in a lie.

One of his instructors at the Academy had a mantra: Be the cover, believe the cover. It was annoying and all of the cadets mocked him for it, but it was actually pretty good advice. It’s served Grant well, over the years.

“What were they after?” May asks.

“Everything,” he says. “They took weapons, alien artifacts…anything they could grab.”

He wonders whether May and Coulson know that the Slingshot was a fake. Do they realize exactly which alien artifacts were locked up in the Fridge? Do they know how many dangerous tools HYDRA now has access to?

Maybe not, because Coulson moves right on to asking about the prisoners. Grant silently nods in response to Coulson’s assumption that the prisoners are free (earning a poke from Jemma, who’s applying antibiotic ointment to his face), and Skye asks about Ian Quinn.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He does honestly regret that he was too busy—first in the Toystore and then fetching the Gravitonium—to at least take a moment and punch Quinn in the face. He still owes the guy that. “He’s out. They all are.”

“And Garrett?” Fitz asks. “Did he get away?”

The tension in the room rackets up about twelve notches. Luckily, he’s going to be able to diffuse it, because he and Garrett agreed to tell the team that he’s dead. It’ll make continuing operations a lot easier if they don’t have to worry about Coulson hunting Garrett.

“Couldn’t stop them from taking the Fridge, but I wasn’t gonna let Garrett walk,” he says. “Not after what he did.”

Jemma’s hands falter briefly in their work, but it’s Skye who asks the question.

“Is he the one that did this to you?”

He nods slightly. “He was a tough son of a bitch.”

Jemma squeezes his shoulder gently, then resumes her work.

“Was?” May asks. “Past tense?”

“Soon as I had the upper hand, I put two in the back of his head,” he lies.

“Good,” Fitz mutters.

“One from me,” he continues, looking at Trip. “One from you.”

He knows that’ll play well. Trip, after all, was actually, genuinely betrayed by Garrett. And since Trip is a legacy…well, this whole thing is twice as worse for him as it is for everyone else. Sure enough, Trip looks satisfied—downright viciously so, at least for him.

“I would’ve emptied the mag,” he says quietly.

“You’re all set,” Jemma announces abruptly. “Well, I mean, as set as you _can_ be with two cracked ribs and a zygomatic fracture.”

Grant ignores Fitz and Trip, who both start to define zygomatic fracture, as he stands. It’s not fun. No matter how many times he gets his ribs bruised, cracked, or broken, it never becomes any less painful. He can deal with pain, of course. He just wishes he didn’t have to.

“Your body needs time to heal,” Jemma tells him quietly as she hands him his shirt. “ _Please_ , take some time.”

She looks so sad and worried that he can’t stop himself from leaning down to kiss her briefly, despite the pain in his ribs—and the audience.

“Understood,” he says when he draws back. She looks at least a little lighter—not much, but then, considering the circumstances, it’s not that surprising—so he’ll call it a win. “Thanks.”

She nods slightly and moves away, busying herself with cleaning up the various first aid supplies.

Now that the debriefing and medical treatment stages are over, it’s time to get down to what he’s here for. So, as Coulson and Skye move to stand on the other side of the lab table, he pulls the hard drive out of his jacket (which is on the table) and holds it up.

“One small victory,” he says. “HYDRA didn’t get their hands on this.”

“A hard drive?” Trip asks.

Right, he wasn’t around for that. Neither was Jemma, for that matter. She doesn’t seem particularly concerned with it, though; she’s still cleaning away the medical supplies.

“It’s all the research our team’s ever done,” Skye tells him. “Downloaded off the plane and encrypted for safe-keeping.”

“We should probably back it up,” Grant suggests. “Now that we’re in a secure facility.”

Skye starts to agree, but Coulson, the bastard, interrupts.

“First, Skye,” he says. “I need you on threat assessment. Pull up a list of all the inmates at the Fridge. I wanna know just how bad this is.”

It’s annoying, but it’s also what he and Garrett planned. Coulson is already distracted by the possible threat Daniels offers to his soulmate. And hey, Grant’s only been here for an hour. He’s still got twenty-three before he needs to worry about enacting Plan B.

“Right,” Skye agrees. “I can do that.”

“We’ll meet in the kitchen for a debrief in two hours,” Coulson decides, after a glance at his watch. “In the meantime, the rest of you are dismissed.”

He nods at them, then walks out of the lab without another word.

Oh, yeah. He’s definitely distracted. Good.

May, who undoubtedly knows about Coulson’s soulmate and the threat Marcus Daniels poses to her, follows silently. Skye is already packing up her laptop, obviously preparing to relocate back into the main base. She’ll have to, since as far as Grant knows, she doesn’t have a list of the prisoners that were being kept at the Fridge handy. She’ll have to hook into the base’s system to get the records.

Trip glances from Grant to Jemma to Fitz.

“Hey, Agent Fitz,” he says. “Could you tell me a little more about how that Mousehole you invented works?”

“Sure,” Fitz agrees, obviously surprised. “You see, what happens—”

“Not here,” Trip interrupts pointedly. “Back in the base.”

“The base?” Fitz asks. “Why…?”

Trip inclines his head in Jemma’s direction, and Fitz’s eyes go wide.

“Oh, right,” he says awkwardly. “The base. Yeah. Lead the way, then.”

The two of them clear out quickly. Skye is only a few steps behind. Left alone with Jemma, Grant rolls his eyes.

“Well, that was subtle,” he says dryly.

“Quite,” she agrees, smiling. She nods at his shirt, which he’s still holding. “Do you need help with that?”

He looks down at it. “Actually, I was going to go get a clean one.”

“Oh, of course,” she says. “I should have thought. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says. He looks her over. She still looks so sad, not to mention exhausted. It will be two hours at least before Skye’s done with the list of inmates. He might as well put the time to good use. “Wanna make it up to me and walk me upstairs?”

“I can certainly do that,” she agrees, with a slight smile. It fades as she considers the elastic bandage wrapped around his ribs. “Can you manage the stairs?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Trust me, I’ve had much worse than a couple of cracked ribs.”

“Why do you always say that as though it’s comforting?” she asks despondently.

“Because it should be,” he says. He tugs gently on the end of her ponytail, and she scrunches her nose at him. “I can handle a little pain.”

“I wouldn’t characterize two cracked ribs as a _little_ pain,” she disagrees, although she offers no further protest as they head upstairs. “Mine were only bruised, and I feel the words _blinding agony_ are more accurate.”

“Which is where the fact that I’ve had worse is a good thing,” he says. “I’ve got practice dealing with pain. And a higher pain tolerance. Comes with the territory.”

“Well, SHIELD is gone now,” she points out as they enter the lounge. “Perhaps you could find some less dangerous territory. You could…take up knitting!”

Distracted from his examination of the damage to the cabin level—the last time he was up here, they were still being shot at—he looks down at her. He knows she’s joking about the knitting, but the suggestion that he find less dangerous territory sounds sincere.

“You’re not planning on sticking with Coulson?” he asks, careful not to sound too eager. “Rebuild SHIELD?”

He never would have expected her to willingly leave, but it’s possible that the HYDRA reveal has shaken her more than he anticipated. They didn’t exactly have much time to talk about it before he left.

“I…” She sighs. “Honestly, I just don’t know.”

He can work with that.

“Well, think about it,” he says. “We’ve got time to figure it out.” Not _much_ of it, granted, but she’s not to know that. And this is one area where he definitely doesn’t want to rush her. “In the meantime, I’m going to change.”

“Do you need help?”

He’s perfectly capable of changing on his own—seriously, this is far from the worst pain he’s ever been in, and he’s got plenty of practice working through it—but Jemma is still looking slightly miserable. Letting her be helpful might cheer her up a bit.

“Actually, yeah,” he decides. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” she says, brightening a bit.

Jemma’s help is unnecessary, but hardly unpleasant. It does make the whole process take a lot longer than it needs to—she keeps stopping to fuss over his bruises—but he doesn’t really mind. He’s well aware that their time is running out.

They save his shirt for last and, since he’s so much taller than she is, he sits on the bed while she stands between his knees and helps him pull it over his head. A button-down would be easier, but, as he reminds her, he doesn’t know when he’ll be called on to fight again. Better to stick with the bones of his tac gear.

Even when he’s got his shirt on fully, Jemma doesn’t move away. She cups his cheek with one hand and rubs her thumb along his stubble. He closes his eyes for a moment. He was away from her for less than a week, but it felt like forever. Knowing that, no matter what move he makes next, he soon really will be parted from her permanently…

“Did you forget to take a razor?” Jemma asks teasingly.

“Something like that,” he says, opening his eyes. He puts his emotions aside. He won’t waste what time he has left with Jemma on regrets.

“I’ve never seen you with anything more than a five o’clock shadow,” she muses. “It suits you.”

“Does it?”

“Yes,” she decides, letting her hand fall away from his face. “It makes you look…roguish. Or badass, as Skye would say.”

He laughs under his breath, because _badass_ sounds both hilarious and adorable in Jemma’s accent. Feeling a bit lighter, he takes her hands and tugs on them a little.

“Sit down,” he says. “I’m going to get a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

“You just don’t like being shorter than me for once,” she accuses playfully. “Now you know how I feel all the time!”

“Come on,” he says. “I’m injured, remember?”

“You’ve had worse,” she teases, but obliges him by sitting down.

She surprises him by sitting _on_ him instead of next to him, but he’s definitely not complaining. He circles her waist with his arms while she wraps one arm around his shoulders (gently) for balance.

“Am I hurting you?” she checks.

“No,” he says, and tightens his grip on her slightly.

She brings her free hand up to trace very softly under the cut on his cheek. “This looks painful. You got it in the Hub, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Then Garrett reopened it.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Would you…like to talk about it? About…what you had to do?”

He swallows. He _should_. If he gets this done the easy way, if he gets the codes from Skye without a fight, he’s still going to cause suspicion when he leaves. He’ll have to take the first opportunity to leave the base that comes up—recon, contact with another SHIELD agent, whatever—and it’s going to raise some questions among the team. They’ll want to know why he’s so eager to go, when he’s only just returned. His well-established dedication to Jemma will work against him, here; readily leaving her behind again will undoubtedly raise flags.

Establishing a pretense of being emotionally compromised—putting on a show of feeling guilty for a) not seeing Garrett for what he was, and b) having to kill him—would do a lot to counter that. And Jemma’s just handed him a gift-wrapped opportunity to lay the foundations for it. For the sake of his cover, he should take it.

But he can’t.

Jemma’s already hurting. Her grief and exhaustion is written all over her face, even when she’s smiling at and teasing him. He can’t bear to add more weight to her shoulders. He can’t let her take on his grief—as he knows she would—when it doesn’t even really exist.

Passing up this opportunity is a stupid, rookie move, and he knows he’ll regret it later.

He does it anyway.

“No,” he says quietly. “I really wouldn’t.”

“Of course,” Jemma says, equally quiet. She presses a gentle kiss to his temple, careful to avoid his various cuts and bruises. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But I’m here, if you change your mind.”

“Thank you,” he says. He has to force himself to swallow past the lump in his throat. He has no idea how he’s going to survive once she hates him. “What about you? Anything you want to talk about?”

“I missed you,” she says simply. “I understand why you had to leave, of course, and I don’t blame you at all. Goodness knows that if I were in your place, and Agent Weaver…”

Her voice breaks on Weaver’s name, and she goes quiet. He pulls back slightly to better meet her eyes.

“Jemma?”

“I’m worried,” she confesses. “About Agent Weaver and the cadets. I—we didn’t have time, before you left, to talk about everything that happened in the Hub. I…”

She breaks off again, swallowing, and he tightens his grip on her.

“Agent Triplett and I used the holobox to contact the Academy, so I could seek Agent Weaver’s advice about Skye’s blood. It’s…how we found out about HYDRA. The Academy was under attack. We could hear gunfire and explosions, and Agent Weaver told me to trust no one. Then the transmission cut out.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I have no idea whether she survived.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He knows that Weaver was Jemma’s advisor while she was at the Academy, and that they grew even closer after Jemma left. No wonder she looks so tired—she’s been dealing not only with the fall of SHIELD, but also the possible (and, in fact, downright likely) death of her mentor.

“I’m worried,” she repeats. “About Agent Weaver, about the cadets…about every innocent, loyal SHIELD agent who _didn’t_ have a message from the Director to lead them to a safe place to hide. They’re all being rounded up and branded as traitors by the American government, you know. Who knows what will happen to them?”

“Probably nothing good,” he admits. “The ones with connections might be able to get out of it, transfer to other agencies. But…a lot of them are probably going to end up serving jail time.”

“Because they were tricked,” she says. “They thought they were doing the right thing. We all did.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “But we weren’t.”

He hesitates. He’s wary of giving away his own opinion of SHIELD, which was very low even _before_ it sent him into hostile territory with an untrained engineer and no extraction plan. He can’t just sit here silently, though. Not when Jemma is so clearly on the edge of falling apart.

“I never thought you’d even consider leaving SHIELD,” he says delicately. “Is that why? Because of HYDRA?”

“Everyone, even Fitz, keeps talking like it’s not in question,” she says. “Like it’s obvious that we’re going to stick together and rebuild SHIELD. But…” She shrugs, ever so slightly. “I’m just not sure.”

He taps his fingers against her side. This could be good. This could be _very_ good. If he can get her to decide against staying here…if he can get the codes from Skye and then talk Jemma into coming with him when he leaves…

There are some obvious holes in the plan. His cover won’t last two seconds with her if he takes her to Havana with him. That would be just as bad for their relationship as actually kidnapping her, and would undoubtedly end in having to hold her prisoner. Just because she’s thinking about leaving SHIELD doesn’t mean she’d be willing to join Garrett’s cause—unfortunately.

But it’s a start. If he can just get her out of the base and away from the rest of the team, he’s sure he can work things out from there. He’s excellent at improvisation.

He can’t rush her, though. He _is_ on a time limit, but…if it means getting to keep Jemma? He’s willing to stretch it a bit.

“Don’t make any decisions yet,” he advises. “Give yourself time to think it through.”

“What about you?” she asks. “Do _you_ want to stay?”

He was afraid she would ask that. The answer is no, of course, but he can’t come right out and say it. She thinks he’s just as shocked and rattled by all of the things that have happened this week as she is, if not more so. And it’s possible she’ll expect him to want to stick around and ‘redeem’ himself after his supposed blindness to Garrett’s true nature.

“I don’t know,” he says. He hesitates for a long moment, then shakes his head. “I guess I need to think it through, too.”

“Well, that’s certainly fair,” she says. She gives him a playful smile that’s almost convincing. “Now, if there are no other serious topics to discuss?”

He kind of gets the feeling that there are, just from the fake smile and the worry still written around her eyes, but decides not to push her. He’s got time. Not much of it, true. But enough that whatever is still weighing on her mind can wait a while.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

“Good,” she grins, brushing her thumb along his bottom lip. “Because I’ve always wondered what it’s like to snog a man with stubble.”

Well, that’s definitely a diversion he can get behind.

“Try it and find out,” he invites.

\---

By the time they’re called to the kitchen in the base (which he belatedly learns is called Providence) for regrouping, he’s feeling much lighter. Some time with Jemma was exactly what he needed to resettle himself, and he’s put away his hesitation and uncertainty.

He’s got twenty-one hours to do this the easy way. He’ll hope that he can make it work, and also that he can talk Jemma into accompanying him when he leaves. If he can’t make thing work—if he has to resort to Plan B—he’ll deal. He always does.

Either way, worrying over it won’t do anything but make him sloppy.

They walk into the kitchen to find Skye sitting at the kitchen table, working on her laptop. Coulson is standing on the other side of the table, while May hovers at the end of it. There’s still tension there, between Coulson and May, and Grant can’t say he’s surprised by it. Coulson’s too emotional, too sensitive, to look past the immediate betrayal May’s actions invoked and realize that she only did what she did to help him.

There’s no sign of Fitz or Trip in the room, and Jemma asks after them.

“They’re raiding mechanical storage,” Coulson says. “They’re gonna get started on repairing the Bus’ fuel line while we hear Skye’s report.”

Grant and Jemma sit on the raised chairs at the kitchen island, while Skye shakes her head and laughs humorlessly.

“Basically?” she asks. “I’m not even halfway through this list, but this is really, really bad. Quinn is the _least_ scary of the bunch and he _shot_ me. Twice.”

“Quinn’s more a sociopath,” Coulson tells her. “A lot of those inmates are full-blown psychopaths. Violent, impulsive…”

“And some with super-powers,” she mumbles. “Lovely.”

Coulson hesitates. “Is Marcus Daniels on the list?”

Grant’s careful to keep his face blank as Skye types. Coulson is about to take the bait, which is a good thing, but he’s suddenly realized that he’s overlooked something huge. Coulson’s going to want to go to Portland and check on his soulmate—which is exactly what Grant and Garrett intended when they let Audrey Nathan’s stalker out of the Fridge.

Skye will have to stay here, so she can keep working on tracking the escaped inmates. It’s the perfect opportunity to get the codes from her, so Grant will need to stay, too—not that it will be difficult to make that happen, when he’s in his current condition. It will only take the slightest prompting to get Coulson to order him to stay behind.

That’s not the problem. The problem is that, at the moment, Coulson doesn’t trust May. He’s not going to want to bring her into the field. Which means she’ll be staying behind, as well.

Which leaves Coulson with a greatly reduced pool of agents to pick a splinter team from. Meaning that he’s almost _definitely_ going to bring Jemma along to Portland.

Damn it.

He should’ve anticipated this. It should not have taken this long for the obvious flaw in his plan to occur to him. All of his emotions over the impending, inevitable end of his relationship with Jemma distracted him. He’s emotionally compromised over her—has been since the beginning, if he’s honest—and while he’s mostly learned to work around it, it just totally screwed his plan.

Skye stops typing, glances up at Coulson, and then turns her laptop to face him.

“That’s him,” Coulson confirms quietly. Then he continues in a louder tone, “Cross-check the list of inmates with crime databases, recent activity. Got a feeling we’ll be seeing a slight uptick.”

“Okay, but that’ll take time,” Skye says. “And more computing power than my _laptop_. Agent Koenig probably has some sort of—”

“I’m sure he’ll lend a hand,” Coulson interrupts. He looks to Grant. “The plane you flew in on.  Is it operational?”

“Yeah,” he says, and stands, deliberately grimacing as he does so. “You need me to pilot?”

Jemma makes a small noise of protest, but Coulson is already shaking his head.

“You heard Simmons,” he says. “You stay and get better. I’m gonna take a splinter team out and start going after inmates on that list—starting with Mr. Daniels. I think I know where he’s going.”

May and Skye both try to talk him out of it—May even suggests that it might be a deliberate distraction from HYDRA, meant to split up the team, which is a little too close to the truth for Grant’s comfort. Skye brings up their safety, asking whether it’s really wise to leave the security of the base.

Coulson shoots them both down. He gives a little speech about the rest of the world not being safe, which would be a lot more moving if Grant didn’t know that his only reason for leaving the base is to make sure his soulmate is safe.

“It may not be wise, but it’s right,” Coulson finishes. “I’m taking a team, and that’s the end of it.” He looks at Jemma. “You, Fitz, and Trip are coming with me.”

Jemma gives Grant an apologetic look, then nods. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ll stay here and work on fixing the Bus,” Coulson orders May. She opens her mouth to protest, but he steamrolls right over her, looking to Skye. “I’ll go square things with Agent Koenig, get you help you need. In the meantime, do what you can with your laptop.”

“Right,” Skye says, casting a wary glance at May. “I’m on it.”

“Good,” Coulson says, then turns on his heel and walks out.

Grant glares after him. Jemma going on this mission completely destroys any opportunity he had to bring her with him when he leaves, but that’s not even the biggest problem. Grant knows _exactly_ how dangerous Marcus Daniels is, and he is _not_ okay with his untrained soulmate and, presumably, her untrained best friend going up against the guy. Trip will undoubtedly be there, and that’s something, but leaving May behind is downright stupid.

Grant is getting very, very tired of Coulson being reckless with Jemma’s life.

There’s no way he can leave Jemma with the team. Whether she comes willingly or not, whether he has to bring Skye or can leave her behind—there’s no possible way he can leave Jemma behind. Coulson will get her killed within the week.

And since he can’t take Jemma with him if she’s not here when he leaves, he needs her not to go on this mission.

He’s about to go after Coulson and talk to him about it when he reconsiders. He remembers the talk he and Jemma had—was it only a month ago? It feels like so much longer.

The point is, he promised not to go over Jemma’s head on this kind of thing. Meaning he’s more likely to get his way if he can convince Jemma herself to stay behind, rather than trying to talk Coulson into leaving her.

He needs to get his way. And not only for Jemma’s safety and so he can bring her along. Jemma staying would have another benefit to his overall mission: namely, it would take care of May, who happens to be a major hitch in his plan. Even if things go entirely his way, and he manages to get the codes for the hard drive and talk Jemma into abandoning SHIELD, he couldn’t possibly talk his way past May. Skye? Sure. He’ll spin a story and get her to open the door for him when he leaves. Even Jemma, as much as he loves her, will be simple to trick.

May, however, will have serious questions, and she won’t be easily distracted.

And if things go wrong and he has to go with Plan B? If he has to actually _kidnap_ Jemma and Skye? If May is here, he’ll have to fight his way past her. Specifically, he’ll have to cross her off, because there’s no way he could possibly keep her subdued long enough to get out of the base with Jemma and Skye. And that’s one fight he’s honestly not sure he’ll win.

Either way, May sticking around doesn’t do much for his chances of success.

But if Jemma requests permission to stay at Providence, Coulson will be forced into taking May along. Regardless of how he’s currently feeling about her, there’s no way Coulson’s stupid enough to go up against Daniels with only Trip and Fitz as back-up. Not when his soulmate’s life is on the line.

Resolved, Grant turns to Jemma to find her watching him with an expression of concern. All too aware of Skye and May, both still at the table and well within hearing difference, he offers her his hand.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says, accepting his hand as she stands. “Perhaps we’d better.”

They don’t go far, just to the next room—which is a sitting room of some kind. The fake window is displaying a picture of Paris at sunset, and Jemma crosses the room to admire it.

“This is lovely,” she says quietly. She glances at him. “Have you ever been to Paris?”

“I have a place there,” he says. “I could take you there, if you want.”

“Instead of going to arrest Daniels?” she guesses with a knowing smile.

“I mean,” he shrugs carefully. “If you’d rather go after a super-powered psychopath than take a vacation in the City of Love…”

“Isn’t it lights?” she wonders, moving away from the window to sit down on the couch.

“I’ve heard both,” he says, sitting next to her. “Among others. But it’s a beautiful city. You’d like it.”

Jemma turns, drawing one leg up on the couch in order to face him comfortably.

“Are we going to fight about this?” she asks gently.

“About Paris?” he deflects.

“Grant.”

He sighs. “I don’t want to fight. But I’ve heard of Daniels. He’s bad news. I don’t want you going up against him.”

“I’ve been in danger before,” she reminds him.

“But not without me there to protect you,” he counters. “How can you ask me to just stay here and watch you walk into danger?”

“I’ve had to,” she says, her tone much gentler than her words would suggest. “Twice. When you went back into the specialist rotation, you went off alone.”

“Which is what I’m _trained_ for,” he points out. “You’re not.”

“Agent Triplett is,” she says. “And he’ll be there. You trust him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says. “He’ll have your back. But he’s also going to be worried about taking down Daniels and protecting Fitz and Coulson. It’s a lot for one man.”

“Coulson has training, too,” she disagrees. “Maybe not as much as a specialist, but he _is_ a field agent.”

“The last time I sent you off with Coulson, he left you alone in the field,” he reminds her. “And you ended up _throwing yourself on a grenade_.”

“Those were extraordinary circumstances,” she says calmly. “And I’m sure Agent Triplett will stay close, even if Coulson doesn’t. Goodness knows this is the longest I’ve gone without seeing him since you left the Hub.”

They go around in circles for at least ten minutes. It never really becomes what he would class as an argument—Jemma remains calm and visibly sympathetic the entire time, while he’s careful to keep his voice even and low—but neither one of them backs down.

He grows increasingly desperate over the course of the conversation. At one point, he gets to his feet and starts to pace, needing something to do with the restless energy filling him. He _has_ to convince her to stay. If he doesn’t…If she leaves…

He can’t even think it.

Jemma stays seated while he paces back and forth in front of the couch. Eventually, during what must be at least the fiftieth round of the discussion, she leans forward and catches his hand, stopping him. When he turns to face her, she takes his other hand as well.

“Grant, this is my _job_ ,” she says. “And whether we stay with SHIELD or not, I will always have a responsibility to protect people. To save _lives_. This Daniels character was bad enough to be locked away in the Fridge. That tells me all I need to know about him. People are in danger as long as he’s free. If I can help stop him, it’s my duty to do so.”

He looks down at her, takes in her calm but resolved expression, and realizes, with a horrible, sinking feeling, that he’s not going to win this one. And once he accepts that, he has to face the truth that he’s been purposely ignoring.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and forces himself to accept it.

He’s been fooling himself. Even if he does manage to get Jemma to leave with him, what then? She would be expecting them to stick together, probably start working for some other agency, somewhere they could _saves lives_.And even if he could convince her that they should lie low and let the heat from SHIELD’s fall die down, there’s no way he could hide his work with Garrett from her. It would only be a matter of time before she realized the truth, and she’d hate him.

And it goes without saying that kidnapping her would have the same results.

Any way he looks at it, bringing Jemma with him when he leaves is only going to end in her hating him. Really, pretty much any move he makes is going to end that way. He’s known it since he realized that Garrett got caught on purpose. Sooner or later, his cover with the team is going to be blown. And once Jemma realizes who he is and what he’s done, she’ll never forgive him.

He’s going to lose her, no matter what he does. He keeps thinking he’s accepted it, but he hasn’t. How can he?

She’s his soulmate. He can’t just let her go. He’s not _supposed_ to.

But he doesn’t have a choice.

So he takes a deep breath (ignoring the accompanying pain in his ribs) and nods.

“I know,” he says. “You’re right. I just…”

“We’ll be fine,” she promises. “You just get some rest and let yourself heal. We’ll be back before you know it.”

He’ll be gone by the time she gets back. Whether he gets the codes from Skye the easy way or has to resort to Plan B, he’ll probably be out of here before they even leave Portland. He has to say goodbye to her again. It was hard enough the first time, when he was leaving her behind in safety—but sending her into danger?

He trusts Trip. Trip will have Jemma’s back—and Fitz’s. Whether that will continue after the team knows the truth, and Trip turns against him, he has no way of knowing. But for the moment, he’ll protect Jemma.

As far as things to hold on to go, it isn’t much. But it’s all he’s got.

“Grant?” Jemma prompts quietly.

“Right,” he says. He clears his throat. “You should probably get your gear together.”

“That’s gonna have to wait,” Skye says, leaning around the doorway. “Apparently, no one’s allowed to leave, yet.”

“Allowed?” he asks. He’s careful to keep his tone even, so as not to give away any of his sudden unease. He didn’t hear her coming. That’s completely unacceptable. He can’t keep letting his emotions distract him like this. It’s not just sloppy, it’s dangerous.

He needs to put it away. His anger, his worry, even the grief he’s already feeling, in anticipation of losing Jemma—he needs to shut it all down. He has a job to do and he can’t do it while he’s emotionally compromised like this.

“Agent Koenig’s rules,” she says. “We have to go through _orientation_. Come on.”

“Well, that’s slightly ominous,” Jemma muses, as she accepts Grant’s offer of a hand up.

“Tell me about it,” Skye agrees.

They find the rest of the team waiting outside of a closed door a few halls away. There’s a short, unfamiliar man with them who must be Koenig, and as the three of them approach, he moves forward.

“You must be Agent Ward,” he says, frowning up at Grant.

“That’s right,” he agrees lightly. “Grant Ward. Nice to meet you.”

“Eric Koenig,” Koenig says. “And we’ll see.”

Okay, then.

“Now that we’re all here,” Koenig says, turning and walking to the door. “It’s time for orientation.” He swipes his security card over the card reader next to the door, then pushes it open. “Everybody inside.”

They all file into the room. The team stays grouped by the doorway, while Koenig walks to stand next to the large chair sitting on a platform in the center of the room. He hits a button, causing the chair to slowly turn and face the rest of them. It has cuffs and wires attached to it, and added to the console between it and the door, Grant has a pretty good idea of what it is even before Koenig speaks.

“All right,” he says. “Just gonna need you guys to answer a few questions. A few psycho-analytic _non-sequitur_ questions.”

“A lie detector,” Coulson says flatly.

“ _The_ lie detector, Agent Coulson,” Koenig corrects. “This baby measures galvanic skin response, oxygen consumption, micro-expressions, biofeedback brain waves, pupil dilation, _voice biometrics_ …” He chuckles. “Ninety- _six_ variables in all. Fury designed this _himself_. He wanted a lie detector _Romanoff_ couldn’t beat.”

Well that’s…concerning. Grant’s taken plenty of polygraphs before, and beaten every single one of them. He received training in it, both from the Academy and from Garrett. But a polygraph designed to catch _Romanoff_? It’s going to take more than a few basic tricks to get past this one.

“Did she?” he asks.

Koenig laughs. “Like Fury would _tell_.”

That’s probably a yes, then. If the lie detector _was_ capable of catching Romanoff in a lie, they’d absolutely want to brag about it. And if Romanoff can beat it—well, what Garrett said was an exaggeration. Grant’s man enough to admit he’s not on her level. But he’s been called the best since her, and there’s damn good reason for it.

He can beat this.

“Sooner we get this done, sooner we can get to work,” Coulson says. He turns to look at the rest of them. “So who wants to go first?”

May volunteers to go first, because she needs to go out and retrieve the jump jet Grant flew here. It needs to be refueled before they take it anywhere, after all. Jemma, Fitz, and Trip will be going after her (though not necessarily in that order), as they need to get going. Skye and Grant will be left for last, as neither one of them plans to leave Providence anytime soon—at least as far as anyone knows.

Coulson is, for whatever reason, excused from the process entirely.

After a brief debate, it’s decided that Trip will go after May, followed by Fitz, and then Jemma. Once that’s determined, Koenig and May stay in the polygraph room while the rest of them go back out into the hall. The door closes behind Grant, the last one out, with what he probably only imagines is an ominous thud.

There’s a slight tension in the air. Even though he’s the only one who actually has anything to worry about, everyone is nervous. Lie detectors tend to have that effect on people. It doesn’t seem to give Coulson any pause, however.

“Okay,” he says. “FitzSimmons, I want you to go pack your gear while May and Trip take the test. Trip, you can get anything you need once your turn’s done. Once Simmons is done, we’ll have our mission briefing and then take off. We can’t afford to delay any longer than we absolutely have to. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Jemma says.

“Absolutely,” Fitz agrees.

Trip simply nods and leans back against the wall next to the door.

“Good,” Coulson says.

Then he turns on his heel and walks away without another word. Skye gives them a shrug and chases after him, catching up with him at the end of the hall and falling into step with him. He can hear her ask Coulson something, but the words are too quiet to distinguish.

“Well, it appears we have our orders,” Jemma says after a brief awkward silence. “Come on, Fitz.”

“I’ll come with you,” Grant offers. “In case you need any heavy lifting done.”

Actually, he needs to make a trip to his bunk before he takes the polygraph test, but he can hardly say that.

“You’re welcome to accompany us,” she says, pinning him with a stern look. “But there shall be _no_ heavy lifting, Grant. You need rest, not to strain yourself.”

“Right,” he agrees as they start down the hall. “My mistake. I’ll just stand back and watch you two do all the work.”

She smiles and slips her hand into his. “That’s all I ask.”

Jemma and Fitz spend the walk to the hangar debating how much and which of their equipment to bring. It would probably help them to know exactly what Daniels’ powers are, but Coulson hasn’t told them and Grant isn’t supposed to know, so he remains silent.

By the time they’re walking up the ramp, Jemma and Fitz have decided that it’s better to err on the side of caution, which means they have a lot of gear to gather. Grant is essentially ordered to stay out of their way, and they get down to business with an air of determination that’s a little out of place for something as simple as packing.

He thinks they’ve probably been going a little crazy from how little they’ve had to do. As far as he can tell, the team spent the three days he was away first working on fixing the Bus, then fleeing the Hub, then following the coordinates to Providence. There’s been no opportunity for science or invention or experimentation—in short, nothing to challenge their usually very active genius brains.

It’s no wonder they’ve latched on to this mission. It’s cold comfort, but it does make him feel a little better about failing to talk Jemma out of going. He really never had a chance.

But he doesn’t want to think about that.

He stands back and watches as Jemma and Fitz gather their gear. Jemma sits on the ground near the holotable and starts packing things that Fitz fetches from the various cabinets into travel cases. They keep a running discussion the whole time, and Grant just lets it wash over him, waiting for an opening that will give him an excuse to go upstairs.

Eventually, he gets a perfect one.

“It’s not here,” Fitz says, gesturing to an empty cabinet.

“Oh, I think it’s still in my bunk,” Jemma realizes, and starts to stand.

“I can get it,” Grant offers casually. “Let you two keep working.”

“Would you?” she asks, relieved. “That _would_ be a help.”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “What’s it look like?”

“It’s in a blue case with silver fastenings,” she says, obviously (and probably correctly) thinking that describing the item itself would be useless. “It should be on the shelf next to the wardrobe.”

“Got it,” he says. “Back in a sec.”

He heads upstairs and straight for his bunk. He doesn’t dare close the door, can’t risk the questions it would raise if Jemma or Fitz decides to come up, so he needs to move quickly. He kneels in front of his closet, ignoring the pain the pull on his ribs causes, and pulls out the box that’s resting at the bottom, under his dress shoes and sneakers.

He opens the box and pushes aside the various passports and credit cards—all of them identities SHIELD knows about, hence him not worrying about bringing them onto the Bus, which means he has to assume they’re all burned now—until he finds the little leather coin purse buried under them. He opens it to reveal the several dozen tiny, sharp shards of metal contained within, grabs two (just to be safe), and shoves them in his pocket. Then he replaces everything in the box and returns the box to the closet.

That incredibly vital task taken care of, he heads to Jemma’s bunk. There are several different boxes and equipment cases inside, which is hardly surprising. She’s been sleeping in his bunk since November, and her own bunk has been relegated to storage—and a place to keep her clothes, since there’s no room in his own tiny closet.

Usually, the sight of Jemma’s bunk being used a storage closet—visual proof of how their lives have become so intertwined—makes him smile. Today, all it does is remind him that unless something goes miraculously right for him, chances are he’ll spend the rest of his life sleeping alone.

He takes a deep breath, focuses on the sharp spike of agony in his ribs, and uses it to put those thoughts aside. All they’ll do is distract him. He turns his attention to the shelves, finds the case Jemma described, and picks it up.

He hears footsteps approaching—Fitz’s, he identifies easily—and steps out of the bunk to meet him.

“Hey,” he says. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fitz says. “Fine. I just wanted a minute to ask you about Trip.”

“Trip?” he asks, readjusting his grip on the case, which is surprisingly heavy. “What about him?”

“You said at the Hub that you trusted him,” Fitz says lowly, looking around like he expects Trip to appear. “Just how sure of him are you?”

Grant studies him for a moment, surprised by the obvious suspicion on display. He knows Fitz isn’t always the friendliest with new people, but after Trip protected Jemma in the Hub (and surely Fitz has heard the story by now; Grant managed to get it in the scant hour before he left the Hub, and Fitz has had four days) Grant would expect him to be in Fitz’s good books.

“Completely,” he says finally. It’s even true. “I’ve been working with him on and off for years. Why?”

“He’s been hovering around Simmons,” Fitz says. “Constantly. Can’t hardly get a moment alone with her.” He frowns at Grant. “If you two are such good mates, what’s he doing putting—putting _moves_ on your soulmate?”

He laughs. He can’t help it. “He wasn’t putting moves on her, Fitz. He was just watching her back.”

“In a secure base?” Fitz asks skeptically.

“No telling how secure it really is,” he says. “What do we even know about this Koenig guy?”

“Still,” Fitz insists. “He’s _always there_. Bloody suspicious, if you ask me.”

“He was just doing me a favor, Fitz,” Grant assures him. “I’d do the same if our places were reversed.”

“What, hang about like a spare one at a wedding?” Fitz asks.

“No,” he says patiently. “Watch his soulmate’s back while he was gone.”

“Even on the Bus,” Fitz says flatly.

“Even on the Bus.” Grant claps him on the back. “Trust me. It’s a specialist thing.”

“Fine,” Fitz says. “But I don’t have to like it.”

“No, you don’t,” he agrees, heading for the stairs. “But you should give him a chance. He’s not such a bad guy. You’d like him if you got to know him.”

“Not likely,” Fitz mumbles, falling into step with him.

“Just…give it some thought,” he says.

Fitz mutters something noncommittal, which is probably the best he’s going to get. He hopes he got through to him at least a little, and not just because Trip is about to go play back-up for Jemma, Fitz, and Coulson and will need them to trust him in order to do his job.

Grant’s leaving as soon as he accomplishes his mission here. And chances are, he won’t be back. He might be able to stretch out his cover for a while, but it can’t last forever, and once it’s gone he won’t be able to work with the team anymore.

Meaning that he won’t be able to watch their backs.

Jemma is his main priority, of course, but she’s not the only person on the team he cares about. He cares about Fitz, too—considers him a friend, even—and he doesn’t want anything to happen to him. If Fitz can learn to get along with Trip, he’ll be that much safer.

“There you are,” Jemma says as he and Fitz reach the bottom of the stairs. “It’s all packed, except for the—ah, thank you, Grant.”

“No problem,” he says as she adds the blue case to the pile of gear in the center of the lab.

“This is all we can do until May brings the jump jet in,” she says. “We should get back to the polygraph room.”

“Right,” Fitz agrees. “Probably almost my turn.”

He’s not wrong; Trip is just leaving the polygraph room, lanyard in hand, when they turn the corner into the hall.

“You’re up, Agent Fitz,” he says.

“Obviously,” Fitz mutters, and shoves past him into the room.

Trip looks more amused than offended, and Grant assumes that he’s picked up on Fitz’s dislike of him and is aware of the cause. He’s a pretty easy-going guy—it’s not a surprise that he’d find the whole thing funny.

“How was it?” Jemma asks, a little nervously.

“Piece of cake,” Trip assures her. “Some weird questions, but nothing too bad. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Good,” she sighs. “That’s…good.”

Grant and Trip exchange amused looks, but neither of them comments. Lie detectors just make people feel guilty. It’s a fact of life.

“So,” Trip says. “You get all your packing done?”

“Yes,” Jemma says. “Well, mostly. May wasn’t back with the jump jet yet, so we weren’t able to load our equipment onto it. But it’s all ready to go.”

“I can take care of that for you,” he offers.

“Oh, thank you, Agent Triplett,” she says. “But that’s not necessary.”

“I don’t mind,” he says. “It’s something to do while I wait.”

“Well,” Jemma hesitates.

“Seriously, Agent Simmons,” Trip says. “I’m glad to help.”

“Then, yes, thank you,” she says. “That would be very helpful.”

“Great,” he says. “I’ll get on that, then.”

He gives them a nod and starts down the hall, and Grant makes a snap decision.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells Jemma.

“All right,” she says, obviously surprised, and lets go of his hand.

He falls into step with Trip, who shoots him a sideways look. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Grant waits until they’ve turned the corner to speak.

“I wanted to thank you,” he says.

“Oh, yeah?” Trip asks.

“Jemma said you’ve been sticking close,” he says. “So, yeah.”

“It’s been driving your friend Fitz crazy,” Trip divulges.

“Oh, you noticed?” he asks, unable to help a little smirk.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Trip laughs. “That is one angry dude.”

“I talked to him about it,” Grant says. “Don’t know how much good it’s going to do.”

“It’s all good,” Trip shrugs. “I’m the new guy and we’ve _all_ got reason to be distrusting right now.”

“There is that,” he agrees. “But he’ll get over it eventually. Took him a while to warm up to me, too.”

“With your winning personality?” Trip asks. “I’m stunned.”

“Whatever,” Grant says. He thinks about bringing up that time in Vienna, when Trip was _very_ grateful for his personality, but decides not to draw this out. He’s got painfully little time left with Jemma, and he wants to spend it with _her_ , not Trip. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you.”

“And ask me to keep it up on this op?” Trip guesses.

“No,” he says. “I know it goes without saying.”

It might sound like a threat, but it’s actually a compliment, and Trip recognizes it as such.

“It does,” he agrees with a nod.

There’s really nothing else to say, so Grant shakes his hand and then heads back the way they came, leaving Trip to continue towards the hangar alone.

Jemma is leaning back against the wall across from the door, staring up at the ceiling. She looks down to smile at him as he approaches and pushes away from the wall.

“That was quick,” she says.

“Just needed to thank him,” he says.

“Ah ha!” she exclaims, poking him in the arm. “So you admit, then, that you put him up to shadowing me the whole time you were gone?”

“I’m not admitting anything,” he denies. “If he wants to spend his free time doing me a completely unprompted favor, of course I’m going to thank him.”

Of course, they both know very well that Grant did put Trip up to it and that Jemma doesn’t hold it against him at all, but she’s been playfully complaining about it for days now and it would be a shame to let it go so soon.

It’s the kind of thing that could easily turn into a running joke, actually…if not for the fact that today is probably the last time he’ll ever see her—if he’s lucky. And it’s beyond ridiculous that seeing her again could possibly be classified as _unlucky_ , but it’s the truth. Because the fact of the matter is, whether he leaves this base peacefully or with Skye as an unwilling companion, his chances of maintaining his cover for any significant amount of time are basically nil.

Meaning that if he ever sees Jemma again after today, chances are she’ll know the truth about him. And _knowing_ that she’ll hate him is bad enough. If he has to face her and _see_ the hate in her eyes—well.

He can’t think about that. Those thoughts are distractions and he can’t afford distractions. So he shuts them down.

“It’s only polite,” he adds.

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Oh, well, if it’s _polite_.”

“It is,” he asserts.

She laughs and leans against him very lightly, obviously being careful of his ribs. He, however, would much rather be in pain than without her, so he tugs her closer for a real hug. She sighs, exasperated, and returns it gently.

“You should be more careful,” she scolds. “I know you’re in pain.”

He opens his mouth, but she pinches him before he can speak.

“And don’t you dare say you’ve had worse,” she orders.

“Okay,” he says. “I won’t. But I have.”

She pinches him again, and he smiles to himself.

“You’re going to bruise me,” he teases. “Don’t I have enough already?”

“Yes, and it’s awful,” she says. “But this one you deserve. Consider it payback.”

“For what?” he asks, pulling away slightly so he can meet her eyes.

She gives him a flat look and pulls the collar of her shirt aside. It takes a lot of effort to keep a straight face, because there on her neck, right above the chain of her necklace, is a very large hickey. He forgot about that—hardly a surprise, since he spent the past few days doing his best not to think about her at all. (Not that it worked very well, but he at least mostly managed to avoid dwelling on their goodbye.)

“Don’t you smirk at me,” she orders, poking him. “Do you have _any_ idea what Skye has been like?”

He has to wince at that, because yeah, Skye must have had a field day. “Sorry.”

“No, you aren’t,” she accuses.

“I’m a _little_ sorry,” he offers.

“We have rules about this sort of thing,” she says. “For exactly this reason. Didn’t we agree on them? That we live with absolute _children_ who would have far too much fun poking their noses into our business, and thus any and all signs of what we do in private should be contained to areas which are _not_ visible when one is clothed? Didn’t we agree on that?”

“We did,” he says, struggling to keep a straight face. “And I’m sorry.”

“No, you aren’t,” she repeats. “But you will be. I shall have my revenge as soon as I return from the mission, and it will be _your_ turn to face Skye and Fitz’s mockery.”

Suddenly, it’s not a struggle to hold back a smile. For a moment there, he almost forgot about what’s coming. The reminder effectively kills his good mood. She won’t be getting revenge, because he’ll be gone when she gets back.

“Grant?” Jemma asks, reading his change in mood. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says. He can’t afford to let her know what he’s thinking, so he shuts it down and summons a slight smile. “I just—missed you, while I was gone.”

“I missed you, too,” she says.

She still looks a little worried, so he leans down and kisses her. Well, he kisses her because he wants to, and because he’s running out of time with her. Every second brings him one step closer to saying a final goodbye, and to say that he’ll miss her is such an understatement that it doesn’t even deserve recognition.

But it also works as a distraction, so he can justify it.

Jemma makes a surprised noise against his mouth, but returns the kiss willingly. It’s honestly kind of painful—his split lip is still tender, especially after the hour they spent in his bunk earlier, and the way he’s leaning over her pulls unpleasantly at his ribs—but it’s more than worth it.

Most of his attention is focused on her, but he learned his lesson earlier, and doesn’t block out their surroundings. Which is why he hears the door start to open in time to pull away. He does so, reluctantly.

“You’re up, Simmons,” Fitz announces. He’s not looking at them, busy fiddling with his new lanyard, and doesn’t notice their states.

Jemma, who _was_ looking flushed and breathless and no longer the slightest bit worried, goes a bit pale.

“Oh,” she swallows. “Right. I’m up.”

“Hey,” he says. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“I know that,” she says. “Of course I do. I’ve nothing to hide. I’ve just…never taken a lie detector test before.”

“Just be honest,” he advises. “You’ll do fine.”

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll be fine.”

She nods determinedly, takes a deep breath, and then heads into the room. Fitz pats her on the shoulder as she passes. Once the door closes, he gives Grant a nod and heads off down the hall without a word.

Grant has some preparations to make before he takes his own turn with the polygraph, but he’s barely reached into his pocket when he hears footsteps—which he easily identifies as Skye’s—approaching. He pulls his hand out of his pocket and leans casually back against the wall.

“Hey,” Skye says. “Simmons taking her turn?”

“Yeah,” he says.

While they wait, Skye fills him in on the various prisoners she’s been researching, and what she’s discovered of their movements so far. She’s actually made some pretty good progress. He listens closely and offers advice for finding them—having a little more experience with tracking psychopaths than she does. There’s no real opening to bring up the hard drive, but that’s all right. It can wait until Jemma and the others leave.

Finally, the door opens again, and Jemma steps out of the room, hooking a lanyard around her neck as she walks.

“That wasn’t so bad,” she says brightly. “And Agent Koenig is ready for whoever’s next.”

Grant exchanges a look with Skye.

“Ladies first,” he offers.

“Chicken,” she accuses playfully, but pushes away from the wall and heads into the room without complaint.

“How’d it go?” he asks Jemma.

“It was…an interesting experience,” she decides. “But I received my lanyard, so it can’t have gone too badly.” She glances over her shoulder. “I _would_ like a look at that system, though. Ninety-six variables, he said. It must be an incredibly complex—”

“You should ask,” he interrupts. Usually he’s happy to listen to her enthuse about this kind of thing, but he’s not looking forward to his own experience with the polygraph, and would rather not think about it. “Maybe he’ll let you take a look when you get back.”

Jemma seems to read something in his interruption, and gives him a worried little smile.

“Would you like me to wait with you?” she offers.

It’s tempting—he’s running horribly low on time with her—but he shakes his head. He needs to be alone, to prepare for beating the test.

“Thanks,” he says. “But you should get to the briefing. Coulson struck me as being kind of antsy about this one.”

And for good reason—not that Coulson’s made any move to _share_ that reason. Grant wonders how long he’ll be able to hide it, once they get to Portland. Actually, he wonders how the whole thing is going to work. Will Coulson be able to resist the urge to let his soulmate know that he’s alive? SHIELD is gone, now; security clearance doesn’t matter anymore. It’s safer for Coulson’s soulmate if she doesn’t know he’s alive, but is Coulson capable of walking away from her again?

Grant realizes where his thoughts are heading and shuts them down. He smiles at Jemma, who’s still hesitating next to him.

“Go on,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“Very well,” she says, a little reluctantly. “Good luck.” She pats his arm. “Just be honest and you’ll do fine.”

He laughs a little at her conspiratorial echo of his earlier words, because he honestly can’t help it, and she beams at him triumphantly.

“There,” she says, satisfied. “That’s better. I’ll see you in a bit, then.”

“Later,” he says, and watches her walk away.

He takes a deep breath as she turns the corner. The two biggest tricks to beating a polygraph test are simple: stick as close to the truth as possible and screw up the baseline. Half-truths are a specialty of his, so he’ll be fine there—and in any case, there’s not much he can do to prepare for telling them, not without knowing the questions in advance.

Which leaves screwing with the baseline. There are a few ways to do that, the easiest being lying during the questions that establish it. He’ll definitely be doing that, of course, but he can’t trust that it’ll be enough. He’ll need something a little extra.

Namely, pain.

The way a baseline works is fairly straightforward: it establishes the subject’s normal patterns—that is, how their body responds when they’re being truthful. Pain is a simple and time-honored trick to screwing with the baseline. If he’s in pain while the baseline is established, it will record the way his body responds to pain, not honesty. And if he’s in pain while he answers the questions he’s asked, the test will read it as honesty.

Of course, that’s a highly simplified way of looking at things. And pain alone can’t beat a polygraph. It will take a combination of strategies to get through this. The point is, pain will be a major factor. And while he’s already in pain—cracked ribs, multiple bruises and contusions, and a hairline fracture to the cheekbone will do that to a man—adding a little more won’t hurt. Especially if it’s a _controllable_ pain.

So Grant steels himself and pulls one of the shards of metal he fetched from his bunk out of his pocket. He’s done this several times before, but it never gets any less painful. He holds his breath and, after a quick glance around for any sign of the others, shoves the metal under his thumbnail. He barely manages not to swear as he slides the shard in as deeply as it can go, but he can’t hold back a slight grunt as he aligns it along the side of his nail—close enough to the skin that it won’t be immediately visible.

It’s entirely necessary, but goddamn does it hurt.

\---

It does the job, though.

The fact that Skye erased all of their identities, SHIELD files included, comes in handy. It means he can get away with lying during the questions to establish the baseline, and he does so. He also answers some of them truthfully, of course—another part of screwing with the baseline, to include both lies and truths while it’s being established.

He lucks out in that one of the establishing questions is about his family. It’s the kind of question perfect for this situation.

“Two parents,” he says, which is the truth. “A sister.” Which is _not_ the truth. “Two brothers.” True. “Don’t have contact with any of them.” And a final half-truth, as he maintains sporadic contact with Ashton.

“Boy, your baseline is getting a lot of spikes,” Koenig says. “Are you in pain?”

“Yeah, only when I breathe,” he says, which is actually a lie—even not breathing hurts, at the moment. “Two broken ribs.”

Koenig advises him not to move, and the polygraph continues.

Mostly, it goes well. At strategic intervals, he rubs his index finger against his thumb, causing the pain to spike and messing up the readings accordingly. The questions are basic and straightforward—hardly anything to trip over—and he’s starting to breathe easier by the time they get to the real question.

“SHIELD no longer exists,” Koenig says. “The agency has been labeled a terrorist organization. So, why are _you_ here?”

“I’m an agent,” he says. “It’s my duty.”

That might be a bit too blatant of a lie, because Koenig hesitates, looking down at the readings. He probably should have been a bit more delicate, but his impatience is starting to get the better of him. He wants this over with. The sooner he beats this test, the sooner he can get out of this chair and go find Jemma.

She’ll be leaving soon. He needs to grab every second that he can with her—because they’re the last he’ll get.

“I need you to…give that to me again,” Koenig says, in what’s probably supposed to be a casual tone.

Yeah. He screwed that up. Unfortunately, it’s not like he can change his answer now—that would be even more suspicious. He’s going to have to follow through with it and hope for the best. Which is really not the way he likes to operate. At all.

For probably the twentieth time today, he shuts his emotions down. (And the fact that he even had to do it a _second_ time, let alone this many, says a lot of very worrying things about his current level of control.)

“It’s my duty,” he repeats.

Koenig reaches beneath the console and pulls out a Walther PPK/S—which is an interesting choice of weapon, Grant thinks absently—and holds it up. He doesn’t aim it at Grant just yet, though.

“I’m gonna ask you a follow-up,” he says. “Agent Ward, are you associated with HYDRA?”

He pauses briefly, considering his options, and then says, “Yes.” He smiles ruefully. “We all are. They’ve…infiltrated the highest levels of our organization.”

That, apparently, was the wrong answer, because Koenig cocks the gun and aims it at him.

“Like you mean it,” he says. “ _Are you HYDRA_?”

This would be so much easier if the test was being run by someone he actually knows. Koenig is a stranger—he’s a variable—and Grant doesn’t know how to work him. He doesn’t know which answers will play well and which ones won’t.

The thing about beating a lie detector is that you also have to beat the person running it. Because if something about Grant plays wrong to Koenig, then Koenig might start wondering about the integrity of the test. And if Grant gets caught in the act of trying to trick the polygraph—well, there’s only one reasonable conclusion to draw, there.

All he really knows about Koenig is that the guy’s been down here alone for a few years, and that he’s a fan of Coulson’s, for some reason.

It’s not much to work with.

“I’m loyal to SHIELD,” he says. “To Agent Coulson, and to my team.”

Koenig’s not convinced.

“Do you have _another agenda_ here?” he demands.

That’s an opening to change tacks, and Grant seizes on it. He shifts his hand just slightly, applying pressure to his thumbnail and sending the pain in his hand spiking.

“Agent Ward,” Koenig says before he can speak. “Why are you _really_ here?”

He takes a deep breath, then meets Koenig’s eyes. “Jemma.” The confusion that crosses Koenig’s face is a good sign, so he continues. “I came back for her. She’s my soulmate. I can’t leave her.”

And the fact that _that_ , of all things, is the biggest lie he’s told yet—well.

“Agent Simmons?” Koenig asks. He seems to waver, checking the console again, and then relaxes, aiming the gun at the ceiling once more. “Cool.”

\---

Jemma nearly catches him removing the metal shard from under his thumbnail. Luckily, the alcove he’s standing in is sheltered enough that he’s able to get it out and pocket it before she can see him properly.

“Hey,” he says, and holds up his newly-issued security card. “Got my lanyard.”

“That’s all of us, then,” she says brightly. “I suppose none of us are security risks, after all. Imagine that.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I could have told him that.” He nods at the backpack she’s wearing and does his best to keep his sudden influx of emotions out of his voice. “You heading out?”

“We are,” she confirms. “Well, there was a slight problem with the jump jet, so May’s fixing it. It shouldn’t take long, though. We’re to meet in the hangar in fifteen minutes.”

Suddenly, the pain in his thumb—and his ribs and his face and every other injury he has—is nothing. She’s leaving in fifteen minutes, and however his attempts to get the hard drive decrypted go, he’ll be gone by the time she gets back.

The next fifteen minutes will be the last time he ever gets with her.

There’s so much he’d like to say to her, but he honestly doesn’t think he can speak. And even if he could—most of it wouldn’t make sense. Not to her. Not with how little of the truth she actually knows. Speaking is both impossible and pointless.

So he pulls her close and kisses her. He can’t keep the desperation and grief he’s feeling out of it, and honestly doesn’t even bother to try. What does it matter if she gets suspicious? Realistically, there’s no way his cover is going to last beyond the next few days. Even if he does manage to come up with a reasonable excuse to leave and gets away without suspicion, that excuse won’t last forever. They’ll expect him to come back at some point, and when he doesn’t…

There are too many people, now, who know he works for HYDRA—the prisoners who saw him at the Fridge, the agents HYDRA loaned Garrett, Raina, her scientists, and more—and sooner or later, someone’s going to let something slip, deliberately or not.

So he doesn’t bother to disguise what he’s feeling. He kisses her again and again, barely allowing her time to breathe, and every one of them is desperate and intense and rough with emotion. All of his memories—every moment he’s had with her—are playing in his head on a loop, and it makes everything that much worse.

He spent thirty years waiting for her. And all they got was six months.

If he’s lucky, he’ll never see her again. If he’s _unlucky_ , the next time he sees her, she’ll be looking at him as a traitor. Either way, this is the end. This is his final goodbye to her.

And she has no idea.

She reads the desperation in the way he kisses her—how could she possibly miss it?—but she misunderstands it. Well, mostly.

“Grant,” she gasps eventually, pulling back. She’s breathless and flushed and beautiful, and he has to close his eyes against the sight of her, just for a moment. Then he opens them, because he can’t bear not to look at her right now—in the last few moments he gets. “We’ll be _fine_. We have a plan. And even if it goes wrong, Agent Triplett will be there to protect us.” She kisses him again, soft and quick. “I’ll be fine.”

He’s more than a little out of breath, too. He’s also out of time.

“Right,” he says. The tightness in his throat makes his voice hoarse, and he swallows. “Of course you will.”

“We’ll be back before you know it,” she promises, stepping back. “And then I’ll have my revenge for this.”

She taps her finger against the mark on her neck, and the vise on his heart tightens further. He can tell, by the size and color of the bruising, that it will take another week to fade. Just a week, and then it’ll be gone.

It feels like an absurd and horrible metaphor.

“Grant,” she repeats. “I’ll be back soon and I _promise_ to be safe.”  She squeezes his arm. “Please stop looking at me like that.”

He thought earlier that this goodbye would be even worse than the one at the Hub, and he was right. At least when he left the Hub he was leaving her in relative safety. This time he’s staying here and letting her walk into serious danger.

Right now some of that berserker rage would come in handy. He tries to summon it—tries to be furious that Coulson is taking Jemma into danger again, and not even doing his best to protect her, since he’s leaving May behind for no good reason—but it can’t last. It’s far outweighed by his grief.

“Right,” he says. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t like this.”

“I know you don’t,” she says. She picks up her backpack—which he shoved off of her shoulders at some point—and slings it over her shoulder, then takes his hand. “But it’s something I have to do.” She squeezes his hand. “Walk me to the hangar?”

He takes a deep breath and uses the pain from his ribs to ground himself.

“Sure,” he says. “Lead the way.”

It occurs to him, as they reach the hangar, that this is going to be the last he ever sees of Fitz and Trip, too. He and Trip have a lot of history together—they were both trained by Garrett, albeit at different times—and they’ve worked together on and off over the years, for those occasional ops that required more than one specialist. Trip’s probably the closest thing he had to a friend before joining Coulson’s team.

And Fitz? They got off to a rough start, sure, but they’re friends now. If nothing else, Grant would be inclined to like him for how much he cares about Jemma—for how happy having him as a partner makes her. But he’s come to appreciate Fitz for his own merits, too. He’s a good guy and a loyal friend.

Grant can admit, if only to himself, that he’s going to miss both of them. But there’s no way he can actually say anything without arousing serious suspicion, so he simply shakes both their hands and wishes them luck. Fitz nods absently in reply, mind obviously already on what he needs to do. (Grant’s willing to bet he’s been asked to invent some method of containing Daniels, which won’t be easy, so he’s not offended.)

Trip, on the other hand, gives him a grin.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I can do your job for you fine while you’re lazing around here.” He pauses. “Hell, I’ll do it _better_.”

It’s the kind of easy banter he’s used to with Trip, and the smirk he gives him in return is entirely automatic.

“Fine? Maybe,” he agrees. “But better? I know a banker in Berlin who’d care to disagree.”

“Whatever, man,” Trip scoffs.

Then he shakes Grant’s hand again, nods at Skye and May, and heads into the hangar after Fitz.

That just leaves Jemma, and looking down at her, all of Grant’s grief and desperation disappears. Even the slight stirrings of anger are gone. All that’s left is a horrible, hollow emptiness.

It’s an awful feeling. But it makes it easy to keep his voice even as he says goodbye to Jemma for the last time.

“Be safe,” he says. He kisses her once, gently, on the lips, then raises her wrist to do the same to her timer. “I love you.”

“I will,” she says. “And I love you, too.” She lets go of his hand and steps back, then gives him a half stern, half pleading look. “ _Please_ get some rest while we’re gone? Your body needs time to heal.”

“I will,” he lies.

Then he stands back and watches as she follows the others into the hangar and out of his life.

\---

He has to take a while to himself. He shouldn’t—he needs to get the hard drive decrypted and get out of here—but he doesn’t have a choice. He needs the time to center himself, to get his focus back on track. His only concern now is his mission. He can’t worry, or think, about anything else.

The hollow feeling in his chest persists, which is actually a good thing. It’s far less distracting than the overwhelming waves of emotion he’s spent most of the day buried under. It makes it easier to shut down, to put aside his personal issues and focus on the job.

He takes a few hours to center himself and to adjust his plan—to take into account Jemma’s absence and May’s presence. Then he goes to find Skye.

She’s in Koenig’s office, and they’re in the middle of some kind of argument. As soon as Grant enters the room, Skye turns to him and pulls him into it.

“Can you help me convince _Steve Rogers_ here,” she says, turning back to glare at Koenig. “To suit up? Grab his shield, head into _battle_?”

“Okay,” he says slowly. Koenig doesn’t really strike him as the field type. “Who’s he supposed to battle?”

She stops glaring at Koenig to hit Grant with an earnest look.

“If we hack NSA satellites, we can get footage from the Fridge breakout,” she says. “See who was there, where they went.”

Shit.

Considering the fact that that footage is going to show Grant right next to Garrett, _leading_ the assault on the Fridge, that’s the last thing he wants. It will _completely_ shatter his cover. But there’s absolutely no logical argument he can make against it. Sure, going up against the NSA isn’t a great idea, but it’s not like they can be in _more_ trouble with the international community. He’s got no reason not to agree.

So he smiles at her and then looks at Koenig. “Well, she’s right. It’s worth trying.”

Skye turns and hits Koenig with an expectant look. He hesitates.

If Skye is going to hack the NSA—and Grant has full confidence in her ability to convince Koenig to go along with it—then Grant’s timetable has just been moved up. A _lot_. He needs to get the codes and get out before Skye gets her hands on that footage and blows his cover.

He thinks quickly. Skye is fixated on finding the prisoners—likely because she spent hours going through the list of inmates and knows _exactly_ how dangerous they are—so the best way to get access to the hard drive is to offer something that might help in the search.

“You know, I can’t hack the NSA,” he says, pulling Skye’s attention away from her stare-down with Koenig. “But maybe I can…upload the hard drive you gave me. Get the specs on the weapons they might be carrying.”

“Absolutely, we should,” she agrees. “But we can’t. The encryption is location-based; we’ll have to…take a field trip at some point to decrypt it.”

Well.

Fuck.

So much for the easy way, then. He’s going to need to bring Skye with him when he goes, and she’ll have to come willingly. He’ll need a cover to get her to decrypt the hard drive, and he’ll need to do something about Koenig—and worse, May.

This requires some restrategizing.

Koenig gives in and agrees to let Skye hack the NSA. He gives her the keys to the comm-sat room, where she can use the mainframe for the hack, but orders her to send the feeds to the monitors in his office. She starts to leave, and Grant stops her to ask how long it’ll be before she gets visuals.

“NSA satellite,” she muses. “Should be tough.” She thinks. “Gimme an hour.”

“Great,” he says. He’s not sure he really manages to sound sincere, but Skye is already gone and Koenig doesn’t seem to notice.

So, he’s got one hour before his cover is blown—permanently. What’s he going to do with it?

\---

The best, quickest way to get Skye away from the base is to appeal to her emotions. If he, for instance, tells her that the team is in danger, she’ll accompany him without question or delay. So he plans out a simple cover story—nothing too complex, as he doesn’t want to risk getting caught in a lie or inconsistency when he’s this close to achieving his goal—that the team has found trouble. He’ll say that Fitz thinks the 0-8-4 from Peru could come in handy, and while, as far as Skye knows, the 0-8-4 has been destroyed, there are specs on the hard drive.

That will get her on the plane and ready to direct him to whichever location the hard drive is encrypted to, no problem.

The problem is that May would never buy the story. She’d want to know all of the details, including exactly what Fitz is hoping to accomplish by hitting a man who absorbs energy with a high-powered laser. She’d want to speak to Coulson herself and make sure he’s all right. In short, she’d see right through him.

Which means he’ll have to cross her off.

He regrets that. May has helped him a lot—with the berserker staff-induced rage _and_ with his struggle over Jemma’s presence in the field—and he does consider her a friend. But he has a job to do, and she’ll only get in the way of it. He can’t allow that to happen.

So he sets aside his regret and goes to find her.

Well, first he goes to the front entrance, which is where he left his backpack. His gun is inside it, and he’s going to need it. He remembers what happened the last time he faced down May, when he was under mind control, and how well it _didn’t_ go. He’s only got an hour—he doesn’t have time for a long, drawn out fight. The best, quickest way to cross her off is to take her by surprise and shoot her.

Of course, that only works if she’s still in the hangar, since he can’t risk Skye and Koenig hearing the gunshot, which they will if it happens inside the actual base. But last he checked, May was working on repairing the fuel line, so she’s likely on the Bus.

Actually, that presents a problem of its own. Grant is flight certified for every flying vehicle SHIELD uses, from the Bus to helicopters to Quinjets, but he’s not repair certified for anything larger than a small transport. If the fuel line isn’t fixed yet, he’s going to have to hold off on taking May out.

When he reaches the Bus, there’s no sign of her in the cargo bay, so he heads upstairs. He finds her standing outside of her bunk, staring blankly into it with her arms crossed.

“How’s it coming?” he asks.

She actually starts a little, which is…weird, and turns to look at him.

“Is the Bus operational?” he clarifies.

“Still banged up, but she’s ready to fly,” she answers. “The fuel line’s been repaired, and the tank’s full.”

It’s definitely good news, but it raises another question. “What’s the range on this thing?”

“Just under ten thousand miles,” she says, and turns away.

Her back is turned and she’s not on guard. This is the best chance he’s going to get. He reaches for his gun, which is tucked into his waistband, but before he can draw it May grabs a duffle bag off of her bed and walks away. He stares and lets go of his gun. Is she _leaving_?

Relief—because he really didn’t want to have to cross her off—wars with surprise. Things with her and Coulson must be even worse than he thought, and he thought they were pretty bad. 

“You leaving?” he asks. It seems obvious, but…seriously. He’s having a hard time believing that she’d just walk away, after literal decades of loyalty to Coulson.

She stops and turns slightly. “Yeah.” She takes a deep breath. “I was _here_ for Coulson. But he can’t see past me lying to him.”

“I get why you did it,” he says. He doesn’t mean to. It just kind of slips out. Which is both dangerous and concerning—a man in his position can’t afford not to have control over his mouth—but not really all that surprising. He’s used to talking to May about this kind of thing—about the demands of the job, which none of the rest of the team will ever really understand. “When you get orders…you don’t question them. You follow ‘em. No matter the price.”

“Yeah,” she says, rueful. “Well, this price was too high.” She’s silent for a moment, then sighs. “I lost him. Coulson doesn’t want me here. He doesn’t need me.”

Apparently finished, she turns and resumes walking across the lounge.

“So, what should I tell him?” he calls after her. Not that _he’s_ going to be seeing Coulson again, either, but it’s the kind of question he would ask if he were actually loyal.

“Whatever you want,” she says, without stopping. “He won’t hear it.”

True enough. Luckily, he’s going to be spared _that_ particular frustration from now on.

He waits until the sound of May’s footsteps on the stairs have faded, then goes to his bunk. He’s immensely grateful to Coulson for screwing things up with May. Since she’s removing herself from the equation, he’s got no need to cross her off. She won’t be around to interfere with his mission.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of Koenig.

He doesn’t have a choice, there. He might be able to talk his way past Koenig—the guy doesn’t strike him as someone who’s seen (or wants to see) a lot of action, so it would probably be easy to convince him to stay here while Grant and Skye go to help the team—but that would still leave him in a position to see the satellite footage and realize that Grant’s with HYDRA. He would tip off the team at once, and Grant can’t afford that.

The longer it takes the team to realize the truth, the better.

If he crosses Koenig off and hides the body, then clears out with Skye, it will take the team at least a little while to realize what’s happened. None of them will jump straight to suspecting him of being a traitor, which gives him more time to get the hard drive unlocked, ditch Skye somewhere, and get away.

Of course, ditching Skye will blow his cover pretty effectively, too, but…he doesn’t want to kill her. And there’s really no point to it, when his cover will eventually be blown no matter what he does. Letting Skye figure it out is as good a way as any, and it lets him spare her life.

But Koenig has to die, and that’s why he drops by his bunk: to grab his garrote wire. He can’t shoot Koenig—he’s in the middle of the base, and Skye would _definitely_ hear the gunshot. He can’t let his cover be broken until _after_ Skye decrypts the hard drive. That means he needs to kill Koenig quickly and quietly, and hide the body somewhere Skye won’t find it.

\---

His haste makes him a little sloppy, and he partially slices through Koenig’s trachea when he garrotes him. Which leaves him with more than a little blood to clean up, both from the floor of Koenig’s office and from himself.

He’s got a lot to do and not much time to do it in. Once Koenig is dead, Grant cuts the comm lines and the security cameras, then erases all of the archived security feed—from the beginning, not just the past few hours, just in case. Then he takes a moment to change the satellite feeds that are on the monitors, away from Skye’s NSA hack (which is currently playing him and Garrett walking across the roof) and onto stockpiled footage. It looks like part of what Koenig’s been doing, all alone down here with this equipment, is monitoring various SHIELD facilities. There’s stockpiled satellite footage of the Fridge, the Hub, the Triskelion, all three Academies, and the Treehouse.

It’s honestly a little creepy, but he can’t complain. Not when the footage of the Fridge suits his purposes so well.

He makes sure that there are no obvious signs on the feed that it’s from last month, then gets to work on clean-up.

He hides Koenig’s body in a vent in the storage closet. He figures it’s the best place—his most immediate concern is hiding this from Skye, and she’ll have no reason to visit the storage closet in the time before he manages to get her out of the base. Just in case, he tucks a penny into the space between the top of the door and the doorframe. It’s not much, but it will give him a quick way to check whether anyone’s been in the closet.

Not that he expects to need it, but his luck’s been pretty terrible lately. It would be just typical for Skye to blunder across Koenig’s body while looking for a snack or something.

Of course, his luck might just be changing, because he manages to hide Koenig’s body, clean the blood off the office floor, _and_ make it all the way to the bathroom on the far side of the base, all without any sign of Skye. Of course, there would be less risk of running into her while covered in blood if he used the bathroom just down the hall from Koenig’s office, but washing blood away is itself a fairly messy process, and he doesn’t want to risk leaving some sign behind for her to find.

He takes his time washing up. Not just to make sure he gets all of the blood—although of course he’s careful about that—but because he needs to re-center himself. Everything he’s done to hide what just happened: hiding Koenig’s body, cutting the cameras and erasing the feeds, changing the monitor display…all of those are stopgap measures. They’ll _delay_ the team’s discovery of the truth, but they won’t stop it.

Whether they put the clues together or they hear the truth from Skye, it won’t be long now before his cover is entirely blown.

He’s been unable to stop himself from thinking of Jemma—from picturing how she’ll react to the truth—since he went to cross off May. It’s bringing his grief back, causing the hollow feeling in his chest to finally start to fade, and he can’t afford that. He needs to stay centered and cold. His job isn’t done yet. He still needs to get Skye to decrypt the hard drive and then get it back to Garrett. Until he’s done that, he can’t allow his emotions to overwhelm him.

So he takes his time cleaning himself up and uses the sound of the running water as a focus as he shuts his emotions down and re-centers himself.

Once he’s gotten himself under control and he’s positive that all traces of blood have been removed (both from him and from his garrote wire), he leaves the bathroom. Skye will be in Koenig’s office by now, watching the feeds, he’s sure.

Except she’s not.

She has been, though, since her phone is resting on the arm of the couch, and it definitely wasn’t there the last time he was in the room. If she’s just been speaking to one of the team, it’ll compromise his cover story, so he picks it up and checks it.

Luckily, the last contact she made with the team was hours ago. Long enough that something could have happened to require their help. Good. He looks around, then tucks the phone in between the couch cushions. He can’t let her bring it along; once he tells her the team is in danger, she’ll want to talk to them to make sure they’re all right. If she contacts them and learns that they’re fine, well…there goes his cover.

For the same reason, he pocketed the sat phone from the lab when he was on the Bus earlier.

The moment alone with her phone is a lucky break, but it does leave the question of where she is.

“Skye?” he calls, stepping out of the office.

There’s no answer.

He makes a quick circuit of the base, but he doesn’t see any sign of her. She doesn’t respond to his occasional calls of her name, either. A terrible suspicion starts to grow in the back of his mind, and he makes his way to the storage closet where he hid Koenig’s body. If she’s seen it…

But when he opens the door, the penny falls right into his hand.

“Hey.”

He turns away from the closet, tucking the penny into his pocket subtly. “Hey. I was just looking for you.”

“And you thought I’d be hiding in the closet?” she asks, a little mockingly.

“Well, I couldn’t find you anywhere else,” he says.

“Sorry,” she shrugs. “Bathroom. What’s up? Why were you looking for me?”

He needs to maintain a delicate balance between enough urgency to get her on the Bus and out of the base quickly and enough calm that she doesn’t start asking a million questions. He also needs to slip a little bit of tension and anger into his posture, because it’s what she’ll expect from him when she hears that the team—including Jemma—is in danger.

“I just heard from Fitz,” he says. “They need our help.” He nods in the direction of the hangar. “Bus is fueled up, ready to go.”

He walks past her, toward the hangar, but only makes it a few feet before she stops him.

“Where are May and Koenig?”

“Koenig’s headed outside to open the hangar doors,” he says. That’s another thing he took care of earlier. “May’s gone.”

“Gone?” she asks. There’s a weird tone to the question, and he scrutinizes her closely.

“She left,” he clarifies. “Said Coulson doesn’t want her here, so there’s no reason to stay.”

“Wow,” she says. She takes a deep breath. “That’s pretty cold.”

He was expecting her to be a little angrier—or at least a bit hurt—but it’s not a surprise that she’s not. It’s pretty difficult to keep track of Skye’s attitude towards May. She seems to swing wildly between admiring her, hating her, and wanting her approval on a regular basis.

“Maybe,” he says. “But there’s no time to dwell. We’re in a hurry.”

“I just gotta grab a couple things,” she says, starting to move away. “I—”

“Hey,” he interrupts, grabbing her. She’s probably headed for her phone, and he can’t have that. “We need to go, right now.”

She stares at him, eyes a little wide, for a few seconds, and for a moment he thinks he’s given too much away. Then she laughs a little.

“Of course we do,” she says, shaking her head at herself. “Lead the way.”

He nods and turns away, heading for the hangar. She falls into step with him easily, but there’s a strange sort of tension to her. Not that it’s a surprise, as he did kind of snap at her just now.

“Sorry for grabbing you,” he says, tone a careful mix of awkward and contrite. “Just…there’s a threat to Jemma. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” she says. For a second, he thinks he reads anger on her face, but a second glance proves that she looks entirely sympathetic. He’s probably just projecting. “Don’t worry about it.”

He nods, and they continue to the hangar in silence. Skye’s still a little tense, but he assumes she’s just worrying about the team. _How_ worried she is becomes obvious in the fact that she doesn’t even ask where they’re going until they’re walking up the cargo ramp. He pauses to raise it, then turns to her.

“Fitz thinks the 0-8-4 plasma ray we found in Peru might help,” he says, gesturing for her to precede him up the stairs.

She does so, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Didn’t we jettison that to the _sun_?”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “But…Fitz has the specs on it.”

She pauses at the top of the stairs, obviously confused. Then her expression clears.

“On the hard drive,” she realizes.

He makes a vaguely affirmative noise, stepping through the bulkhead into the hallway.

“You need me to…decrypt the hard drive,” she says, in kind of a weird tone.

“The team does,” he corrects. “And since it’s coupled to specific coordinates, Agent Skye…you’re in charge.”

She smiles a little. “Right.”

“So, where to next?” he asks.

“California,” she says. “LA.”

“Great,” he says. “I’ll get us off the ground.” He glances at her; she’s stopped in the lounge, standing next to the couch. “You want to come with? Sunrise from the cockpit’s a great view.”

“Maybe next time,” she says, shaking her head. “If we’re gonna have to go save the team, I’d like to get some sleep in first. Not much else to do on the flight anyway, right?”

“Right,” he agrees, honestly a little relieved that he won’t have to keep up the act the whole way there. “Good thinking.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, and ducks into her bunk.

He shakes his head and continues to the cockpit. Once he gets the Bus out of the hangar and into the air, he sets course for Los Angeles and engages the autopilot. Then he leans back in his seat.

He should probably follow Skye’s lead and get some sleep. It’s been…a while, and he _is_ exhausted. Unfortunately, he can’t.

He’s managed to get used to sleeping without Jemma. The two turns he took in the specialist rotation served him well, there—he sleeps _better_ with her beside him, but he _can_ sleep without her. That was always in unfamiliar beds, though. He doesn’t know if he can sleep in his bunk—which, realistically, has become more _theirs_ in the past few months—without her there. Especially with the knowledge that she’ll _never_ be there again.

His time with Jemma is over. And as soon as Skye decrypts the hard drive and he ditches her, his time with the team will be officially over, as well. He’ll go back to Cuba and give Garrett the hard drive, which hopefully contains the information they need to complete the Centipede project.

And once the Centipede project is complete…he doesn’t know. He has no idea what he’ll do after that.

He’ll just have to wait for Garrett’s orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, before you ask (since I've received a _lot_ of requests over the course of this story) there _will_ be a side-story from Jemma's POV, covering the reveal at the beginning of "Nothing Personal." Whether the side-story goes up before or after the chapter itself really just depends on which one I finish first. So keep an eye out!
> 
> Also, just a warning, we've got about a month left in the semester, and we're reaching the point where the major projects and grades happen. I've got three projects due a week from today, in fact. So the next chapter might be a while. I'll try to get it out faster than this was, but I can't make any promises. Sorry!
> 
> And...that's it. Thanks for reading!


	20. Nothing Personal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant has a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Hi. Anyone out there?
> 
> I know this has taken forever (tomorrow will be five months to the day, in case you're curious), and I am very, very sorry about that. Somewhere over the course of writing this fic, I started to hate it. I still kind of do, tbh--just _thinking_ of the Pilot makes me cringe--but time has eased it. So here we are again.
> 
> Speaking of the Pilot, I also have to apologize because giving you such a short chapter--the only chapter since the Pilot not to break 10,000 words--makes me feel bad. It's like coming back from a mid-season hiatus with a boring filler episode. But at least it's not a clip episode?
> 
> In other news, in case you missed them, I posted two _sometimes_ -related works during my little hiatus: [something to scream about (with empty lungs)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3335426), which is Jemma's POV of coming back to Providence to find it empty, and [i'll have to fly (there's no one to catch me)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3580779), which is a _break the glass_ story with the premise that the kidnapping attempt in _we're arm in arm (as we sing away)_ actually succeeds. So check those out, if you haven't already.
> 
> Lastly, since it's been a while, just a friendly reminder that a) this is _not_ canon compliant with season two, and b) Ward's thoughts and opinions do not necessarily reflect my own.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

The hard drive is locked to a diner—the place Skye first met Mike Peterson, or so she claims. It seems like a weird choice, to Grant, but he has to admit it’s an effective one; if he’d been forced to figure out the hard drive on his own, he never would have guessed it was locked to some random diner in LA.

So it’s a good thing he wasn’t.

She says it’ll take a few hours, which is irritating—and not just because he’s finding it oddly difficult to maintain his cover, now that he’s so close to the end of its usefulness.

The last time he was in LA was after being exposed to the berserker staff; the team spent five days of downtime here, and he and Jemma barely left their hotel room once. It’s impossible to be here without thinking of it—of her—and the change in circumstances makes the memories bitter.

He’s lost her.

And that’s not all. He can’t make contact with the team—it’s been long enough that they might have already returned to Providence to find it empty, and if they’ve figured him out (which they’re going to do sooner or later; Koenig’s corpse won’t stay hidden for long), he can’t risk giving them a way to trace him.

Which means he has _no idea_ how things in Portland went. He doesn’t know if Jemma’s safe or if she’s been injured or if Daniels escaped or what. His worry for her is a constant nag at him, and he bounces from it to anger to despair and back again over and over.

Even the conversation Skye starts when she gets irritated with his impatience can’t distract him—which, as it turns out, is really unfortunate.

Garrett was right when he called attachments weakness. Grant is so focused on his misery, on the knowledge that he’s essentially lost his soulmate—not to death, as he’s always feared, but instead by his own actions—that he doesn’t notice how strange Skye is acting until it’s too late.

She asks questions about his undercover work, about killing Garrett, and it takes him too long to notice the vicious undertone to her words and the determinedly still way she holds herself—like she’d be shaking otherwise. It takes him way, way too long to realize that she  _knows_.

And when he _does_ realize—when the visual and verbal cues he’s been ignoring finally process past the haze of misery—it’s too late to do anything about it. The cops who’ve been giving him the side eye are clearing people out of the restaurant, which means they’re about to make a move, and Grant does _not_ have time to be arrested. Not today.

He can still salvage this, though. If Skye doesn’t realize that he knows she knows—

“They’re starting to clear people out,” he says. “We should go.”

“No, I think I’m good here,” she says, and he barely bites back on the urge to swear.

She’s been playing nice this long because she was scared—afraid of what he’d do to her, probably, and he has the unfortunate suspicion that she figured him out by finding Koenig’s corpse—but the presence of the cops has emboldened her. She’s counting on the police to protect her, so she’s not going to play along anymore.

He doesn’t want to hurt Skye. He hates to admit it, even to himself—hates to think of it in these terms—but she’s family. He meant it when he told her that.

“Skye,” he tries again. “We’ve been made. Come on.”

“No,” she says, and spins her laptop to face him. On the screen is an LAPD warrant for him, the picture clearly taken right here in this diner, and he studies it with a sinking feeling. He’s been so out of it that she had time to put out a false warrant for him without his notice.

He needs to get his head back in the game.

“I tipped them off,” she tells him, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the screen to look at her but he can hear the disgust in her voice when she adds, “Hail HYDRA.”

Something about it—whether hearing that tone in Skye’s voice or hearing those words from her—sets him off. He doesn’t know _why_ —why it affects him so much, why it bothers him at all—but it does. The berserker rage, already so close to the surface, rises up to choke him, and it’s almost a relief when one of the officers draws his gun and approaches them.

He doesn’t want to hurt Skye. But the cops? _Them_ he’s perfectly happy to hurt.

He loses himself in the rage, barely keeps track of his own moves as he takes out all the cops in the diner. He breaks a glass, a plate, and at least six bones before Skye takes advantage of his resistance. She flees out the door while the cops are distracted with him, and the fury in his chest mixes with pride, because she’s always been a survivor but he helped make her a better one.

It’s weird that he’s proud of her. Becoming her SO was a mix between a strategic call and May dodging the job herself. He wasn’t supposed to get attached. But he undeniably did.

He has so many attachments, now: to Skye and to Fitz and, always, to Jemma. Even to May.

If this clusterfuck is any indication, it’s probably gonna get him killed.

Part of him wishes he could let Skye go—because he doesn’t want to hurt her, but that doesn’t mean he _won’t_ , and if she’s gonna fight him he’s gonna have to—but he knows he can’t. She hasn’t unlocked the drive for him yet, and he can’t go back to Garrett without that data.

So he crosses off the cops that are still conscious and chases her out of the diner. He finds her in the process of getting arrested by two cops outside and shoots them both. But he makes the mistake of trying to reason with her rather than just grabbing her, and she manages to make it into the police car and drive away before he can stop her.

He’s fast, but he’s not fast enough to catch up with a car on foot, and there are no convenient vehicles to hotwire. He’s left standing in the middle of the street, with a diner full of dead cops and two injured officers at his feet, staring after her as she speeds away.

And then the car screeches to a halt as Deathlok drops out of the sky to land on the hood.

\---

The drive back to the Bus passes in tense silence. Deathlok’s face is blank, but there’s a glare hiding behind the _ready to receive_ _orders_ expression that makes Grant grateful looks can’t actually kill.

It’s a little awkward.

Skye is quiet, too, but that’s mostly because Deathlok choked her into unconsciousness. Grant’s kind of curious about that, whether those were his exact orders or if he was moved to an extra degree of violence by Skye’s choice of diner, but he doesn’t ask.

He also doesn’t ask what the hell Deathlok’s doing here. He wasn’t _expecting_ Garrett to send someone to back him up, but he wasn’t not expecting it, either. He knew, when he called in on the flight from Providence to tell Garrett he was headed to LA, that there was about a fifty-fifty chance he’d be getting company.

Admittedly, he wasn’t expecting Deathlok, but whatever.

On the Bus, Deathlok deposits Skye on the cargo bay floor while Grant gets the SUV locked into place and raises the ramp. He doesn’t want to stick around any longer than he has to—Deathlok jumping fifteen feet in the air and punching through a windshield caught more than a few eyes, and it’s sure to draw the team’s attention (they’ll be looking for them soon, if they aren’t already).

Unfortunately, they can’t take off just yet.

However Skye figured out that he was HYDRA—and if it really was  by stumbling across Koenig’s body, Grant is going to be _extremely_ annoyed—it’s obvious that she knew before they reached LA. The hard drive, of course, wasn’t locked to the diner, and chances are she’s not going to be eager to give up the real location.

It’ll take some time to get it out of her, and they’ve only got so much fuel. They can’t afford to fly around in circles while waiting for Skye to talk, not if they want to then fly to wherever the hard drive actually _is_ locked to and then on to Cuba.

So as much as he’d like to get the hell out of LA before Jemma—before the team shows up, he’s out of luck.

There’s nothing to do but wait for Skye to wake up.

Deathlok remains motionless as Grant paces the cargo bay, agitated. It’s a struggle to keep his thoughts away from Jemma: whether she’s okay, whether they’ve finished in Portland yet, whether she knows who—what—he is now. He can’t stop himself from picturing her reaction—what she might think, what she might _feel_ , when she finds out the truth.

Mostly to distract himself, he snaps, “You had to knock her out?”

“You should be thanking me,” Deathlok snaps back. “I saved your ass.”

Honestly, he kind of did, but Grant’s itching for another fight and this is the perfect excuse.

“You didn’t _save my ass_ ,” he says, stalking up to Deathlok. “You turned it into a public spectacle.”

“You let her get one over on you,” Deathlok counters. “That’s exactly what Garrett was afraid of.”

“And Garrett told _you_ to stay out of sight.” Or so Grant presumes.

“He _ordered_ me to shadow you,” he corrects. “He knew you had a soft spot for Skye and she might take advantage of it.”

Is that what happened?

It’s true that he has a soft spot for Skye, that the friendship begun mostly to keep Jemma happy morphed into a real one somewhere along the way. Wasn’t he just thinking it in the diner, that she’s family and he doesn’t want to hurt her? She did get one over on him, tipping the cops off without him realizing, and if Deathlok hadn’t intervened, she would’ve gotten away.

(He’s sure he would’ve thought of something and managed to catch up to her pretty quick, but she could’ve done some serious damage in the meantime.)

But was that because of the way he feels about her? He blamed it on Jemma earlier—on his fixation on her, his inability to think past the imminent end of their relationship—and that was definitely the main cause, but…

He wasn’t watching for it. He wasn’t on edge, wasn’t expecting betrayal from Skye.

He’s _always_ expecting betrayal.

He’s so fucking compromised that it’s almost funny.

“Well, he was wrong,” he says, a bit belatedly. “We have her. And once she gives us the location, we’ll be off.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” Skye says hoarsely, and he and Deathlok both turn to find her climbing to her feet.

Grant never even noticed her stirring. He needs to get his head in the fucking game, already. He can’t afford any more mistakes.

“Take a walk,” he orders Deathlok. “I can handle this.”

“Can you?” Skye asks, disdainful. “You haven’t so far.”

It’s an unfortunately fair point.

Deathlok leaves after passing on a five minute time limit from Garrett, and Grant is left alone to face Skye’s reaction.

Somewhat surprisingly, her reaction is violence. She shoves him, punches him in the face, and—when he pins her against the stairs—head-butts him, all with impressive force. As the person responsible for her training, he’s proud. As the person on the receiving end of it, he’s annoyed.

He’s got the handcuffs the cops tried to put on him in the diner tucked in his back pocket, and he uses them to cuff her to the stair railing and backs off for a minute. His nose is bleeding; he grabs a hand towel from the lab and uses it to blot the blood away while Skye seethes.

“All this time,” she whispers. He wonders if it’s just emotion, or if Deathlok did serious damage to her throat. “ _Everything_ we’ve been through. Why? How _could_ you?”

“I was on a mission,” he says. “It wasn’t personal.”

Predictably, Skye doesn’t take that well. He didn’t expect her to.

Of course, he also didn’t expect her to call him a _Nazi_.

“Stop, wait,” he cuts in. He was intending to let her rant for a while, get it out of her system, but he _really_ can’t let that pass. “I’m not a _Nazi_!”

That’s just fucking ridiculous.

“Yes,” she says. “You are. That is _exactly_ what you are—it’s in the SHIELD Handbook, chapter one. The Red Skull— _founder_ of HYDRA—was a big, fat, _frickin’_ Nazi!”

“That has nothing to do with today,” he tells her, but she doesn’t even seem to hear him.

“You know, you always had that—Hitler Youth _look_ to you, so it’s really not that surprising.”

Okay, for one thing he doesn’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. For another, this line of conversation is starting to annoy him.

He is _not_ a Nazi. He’s barely even HYDRA. His and Garrett’s work with HYDRA was strictly means to an end; funding and manpower for their personal goals.

“It’s not like that,” he says. “I’m a spy. I had a job.”

It gets her off the Nazi thing, luckily, but she moves right on to the fact of him killing people. It’s kind of a weird complaint, as far as he’s concerned; it feels like he’s been crossing people off at least once a week, every week, since he joined the team, so he doesn’t know why she’s acting like it’s news that he’s a killer. The sheer absurdity of it helps him start to regain his calm, and for a minute he’s almost amused.

But then she starts asking if he’s going to kill _her_.

“Just gonna kick back, and watch _me_ bleed, until it’s your turn to pull the trigger,” she accuses.

Okay. _That_ …actually kind of hurt.

“You think I had a part in that?” he demands. As if he wasn’t just as frantic as the rest of the team, waiting for news—watching her struggle for life. “That I would let that happen to you?” She looks just as incredulous as he feels, meaning she’s probably less inclined to violence now, so he risks moving closer. “You know how I feel about you, Skye. I told you; you’re family.”

She mouths at him wordlessly for a minute, eyes filled with tears.

“Wait,” she breathes, and he obligingly stops where he is. Her voice shakes as she continues, “So, even though you’ve been lying—to _everyone_ —about _everything_ …you’re saying that you—you—”

“You’re family,” he repeats. It’s suddenly become vitally important to him that she understand this, though he’s not sure why. “I care about you, Skye. I always have.”

She lets out a shuddering breath. “You’re _insane_.” She backs away, as far out of range as the restraints will let her go, pressing her lips together like she’s trying not to cry. “And we are _not_ family.”

The berserker rage, banked since he killed those cops at the diner, sparks suddenly to life at the denial. This matters. It shouldn’t, but it does. Skye is family, family like Maynard and his parents never were—family like Garrett _is_ —and hearing her deny it is infuriating.

How dare she just write him off? She doesn’t know a fucking thing about this—about how he ended up where he is. She doesn’t know his reasons. After everything they’ve been through, he thinks he deserves the benefit of the doubt.

“You—do you think this has been easy for me?” he demands. It’s a struggle to control the rage; he keeps his voice deliberately low to avoid shouting, and grasps the railing on either side of her to keep from shaking her. “Do you have _any idea_ how hard it was?”

Walking a fucking tight-rope between keeping his cover and letting Jemma know him. The lengths he had to go to in order to keep the team safe without screwing up Garrett’s plan. Marching to SHIELD’s drum, even after Hand abandoned him and Fitz in fucking South Ossetia.

“The sacrifices, the decisions I had to make,” he gave up his fucking _timer_ , “But I made them. Because that’s what I do,” she’s never understood him—his work—not really, “I’m a survivor.”

Skye looks about three seconds away from tears, but she firms her chin and meets his eyes evenly.

“And what about Simmons?” she asks. “Doesn’t she mean anything to you at all?”

The change in topic is enough to give him whiplash, but it does nothing for the rage. Hearing her question _that_ —hearing her suggest that Jemma might not mean anything—might not mean _everything_ —to him pisses him off even more than her denial of their relationship did.

“Of course she does,” he snaps. He lets go of the railing and eases back a step, like putting distance between them can put distance between him and his rage. “I love Jemma.”

Skye scoffs.

“I don’t believe you,” she says. “If you loved her, you _never_ could’ve pulled this crap.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to ground himself with the pain in his ribs. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means she’s never gonna forgive you for this.”

It’s nothing he hasn’t thought himself—a thousand times in the last hour alone, even. Hell, it’s half the reason Skye got one over on him in the diner. He _knows_ that things between he and Jemma are done, that she’ll never be able to accept this about him. He’s _known_ it.

But—somehow—actually hearing it said aloud, and by one of Jemma’s closest friends, no less, hits him so much harder than thinking it himself did.

“She will,” he says. “Once I have a chance to explain—”

“Explain _what_?” Skye demands. “That you’re a _serial killer_? That you’ve killed God _knows_ how many people in the name of HYDRA? Garrett tried to have her _kidnapped_! And you’ve been working for him this whole time!” The cuffs rattle against the railing as she tries to gesture sharply, apparently forgetting, in her anger, that she’s restrained. “You can’t explain away being the fucking _enemy_ , Ward!”

It’s true. He knows it’s true. Jemma is sweet and soft-hearted, but she’s not stupid and she’s not easily swayed. She hates violence, and while she understood the necessity of it while he was serving SHIELD, he knows HYDRA will be a different matter.

Hell, just his connection to Centipede would probably be a deal-breaker. He knows how disgusted she was by the implants, the kill switches that forced the soldiers into doing Garrett’s bidding.

“Jemma is _never_ going to forgive you,” Skye reiterates spitefully. “I hope your precious HYDRA was worth losing your soulmate.”

He can’t truly argue that.

So he lashes out instead. “And what the hell would you know about soulmates, huh?” She shrinks back as he looms over her, and he grabs her right wrist, just above the handcuff, and gives it a shake. “You don’t have a soulmate. You don’t even have a timer.”

It’s a low blow and he knows it. But if he was expecting it to wound Skye into silence (was he? He’s lost complete control of this conversation; he has _no idea_ what the fuck he’s thinking), he’s disappointed. Her face crumples, but only for a fraction of a second; then her glare returns.

“How much do you think Jemma’s gonna envy me for that?” she hisses.

He releases her wrist and falls back a step without conscious thought. He’s considered that before, too—that Jemma will regret her timer—but not in those exact words. Not in terms of her wishing she’d never had it at all.

“She’s gonna wish she never met you,” Skye says, vicious satisfaction in her tone. “You can do whatever the hell you want to me, but you will never— _ever_ —be able to fix things with Jemma.”

She’s right, but like hell he’s going to admit it.

“We’ll see about that,” he says, but watching her next words die on her lips isn’t as gratifying as he would’ve expected it to be.

She looks terrified. His rage evaporates.

Does she—does she think that he would hurt Jemma? Does she seriously think he’s _capable_ of that? That he would ever do _anything_ to—to—

It’s a relief when Deathlok calls for him from the back of the lab, and Grant has the excuse to turn away from Skye.

He cares about her. She’s family. The idea that she thinks so low of him—that she’s actually scared he’s going to hurt Jemma—sits like a knot in his chest.

His ribs are killing him.

“What?” he asks, as he joins Deathlok in front of the door to the storage area.

“Garrett’s done waiting,” he reports. “He wants answers. If you can’t get them, he’s leaving it to me.”

It goes without saying that Deathlok’s way of getting answers would involve violence. Grant doesn’t want that—doesn’t want to see Skye hurt—but he knows they don’t have a choice. They’ve been in LA for too long already: long enough that the team could’ve arrived and searched half the airfields in the city by now.

They’re running out of time, and Grant’s attempt to get the hard drive unlocked never even got started. He let Skye distract him from the issue at hand with her accusations—with her emotional reaction.

Sloppy.

“All right,” he says, and Deathlok falls into step with him as he crosses the lab.

Skye is trying to escape her restraints via squeezing the cuff of her wrist, which is so inefficient that he’s actually annoyed. He has the passing thought that he’ll have to add escaping captivity to her training curriculum—then realizes what a ridiculous thought it is.

He’s not her SO anymore. He won’t be training her in _anything_.

“Time’s up,” he tells her. “You can tell me where to unlock the drive—” He jerks his head at Deathlok. “Or you can tell him.”

Because she’s Skye, of course she doesn’t make it that easy. Grant walks away, just to put some distance between them, and leans back against one of the lab doors as she tries to appeal to Deathlok’s better nature. Of course, she tries to do it by reminding him about his son, which would be more effective if said son wasn’t currently the leverage by which Garrett is forcing Deathlok to do his bidding.

The Incentives program really is a stroke of genius, but Skye’s mention of Jemma—in the context that she and Fitz will be able to figure out a way around the kill switch—reminds him just how poorly she’d look on it.

The thought aches.

It also pisses him off.

Deathlok’s angry, too, albeit for entirely different reasons, and he puts a quick end to Skye’s attempt at bargaining. He steps right up into her space, towering over her, and as her SO, Grant is kind of proud of the way she doesn’t flinch or back away.

“Tell us how to unlock the drive,” Deathlok orders.

Skye’s quiet, “No,” isn’t unexpected, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.

“Damn it, Skye,” Grant says, pushing off the door.

“You could’ve shot me, back in Italy, but you didn’t,” Skye says to Deathlok, ignoring Grant. “They made Quinn do it because there’s still good in you, Mike, and I don’t think you’re gonna hurt me.”

She…really doesn’t understand how this coercion thing works, does she?

“You’re right,” Deathlok says quietly.

What?

“I won’t hurt you,” he says. He turns suddenly to face Grant, raises his arm, and—before Grant can even react (he’s let his guard down, fucking sloppy, he is so goddamn compromised)—fires a small, circular disc from his gauntlet.

It lands right over Grant’s heart, and he stumbles back a step, grabbing on to the door for support, as he feels the edges of it dig through his shirt to pierce his skin.

What the _fuck_ —

It lights up, sparks, and his heart stops. Literally.

 _Pain_.

He can’t breathe. His legs give out from under him. He’s flat on the floor but his head is spinning and he can hear Skye and Deathlok talking but he can’t comprehend the words. He can’t think straight, not really, but he can connect his current state to the little disc Deathlok just fired at him, so he tries to pry it off his chest, but he can’t make his hand close around it—

And he forgets to try again because he’s thinking of Jemma, thinking of her timer going red and her being _happy_ about it, would she even grieve him after all of this—

He can’t breathe—

“He’s a murderer,” Skye says, a million miles away.

“Yes, he is,” Deathlok agrees. “Are you?”

That means something, he knows it means something, but he can’t figure it out. His vision is greying out, lungs burning; his entire chest is on _fire_ —

Skye and Deathlok are still talking, he can hear her voice rising, but he’d swear they’re not speaking English (or any of his other languages)—

And then it stops.

Suddenly Grant can breathe again, and he gasps for air. He’s covered in a cold sweat, shaking all over like the worst adrenaline crash of his _life_ , and now that he can think again he realizes that Deathlok almost just fucking _killed him_.

He tries to sit up as Deathlok drags Skye into the lab, ordering her to start the hack, but can’t quite manage it. He reaches for the door, intending to use it as leverage, but his depth perception is out of whack and he can’t make contact with it.

What the _fuck_ was that fucking thing?

He’s still struggling when Deathlok comes out of the lab and pulls him to his feet. He’d like to punch him in the face, but his legs are so unsteady that he’s pretty sure he’ll be back on the ground the second Deathlok lets go of him, so he restricts himself to swearing at him.

“Get the plane in the air,” Deathlok says, which might just be the most fucking ridiculous thing Grant’s ever heard.

“Can’t,” he grounds out, leaning against the door behind him. “I can barely stand.”

Deathlok gestures; the little disc attached to Grant’s chest gives a hum, and an indescribable _jolt_ runs through him. Suddenly, it’s no trouble at all to breathe and stand up straight.

Seriously. What the fuck is that thing?

“That should help,” Deathlok says, patting him on the cheek. Then he walks away.

Grant turns to watch him go, seething, and rips the fucking disc off of his shirt. The berserker rage is bubbling in his chest, and he needs to get a handle on it before he does something stupid. He’s already let his emotions get the best of him too many times today; he can’t afford any more weakness.

But as he watches Deathlok walk away, his eyes catch on Skye, and the sight of her makes him forget his rage. She’s in the lab, typing away, and there’s a set to her shoulders that suggests she’s _deliberately_ keeping her attention fixed on her laptop in order not to look at him.

Now that he’s not _dying_ , he can comprehend what just happened. Skye gave up the location, not under torture, but in order to make Deathlok stop the heart attack he was giving Grant. Deathlok used Grant’s death as a threat against Skye, and it _worked_.

She saved his life.

He needs to get the Bus off the ground. The emotional spiral he’s been in all day has thrown his internal clock for a loop—and the heart attack sure didn’t help—but he knows they’ve lingered at the airfield for too long. The team could come across them at any moment.

But he wants to know why Skye saved his life, and he’s in no condition to read it off her right now. And while there’s no time to waste, he needs a few minutes to recover before he goes to deal with Air Traffic Control, anyway. (Even private airfields have some manner of control tower; that’s how mid-air collisions are avoided.)

Skye’s shoulders stiffen as he enters the lab.

“I’m working on it,” she snaps before he can say anything. “It’s gonna take a minute.”

“That’s fine,” he says, placating. That jolt, whatever it was, gave him a lot of his strength back, but he’s still feeling a little unsteady; he leans against the table across from her for balance, careful to make it look casual. “I’m not here to rush you.”

“Then what do you _want_?” she demands, hands stilling over the keyboard. “Haven’t you done enough for one day?”

“You just saved my life, Skye,” he reminds her. “I wanted to thank you.”

Her jaw clenches. “Yeah, well, I didn’t do it for you.”

“Why _did_ you do it?” he asks.

She’s quiet for a long moment. Her fingers flex above the keyboard, but she doesn’t resume typing.

“Simmons,” she says finally. “I did it for her.”

Huh.

“Really?” he asks. “I thought you said she’d never forgive me for this.”

“She _won’t_ ,” she snaps. “But she deserves the chance to tell you to your face that you’re a disgusting traitor and she hates you.”

“No, that’s not it,” he says, evaluating her expression. “You…thought she’d be angry if you didn’t?”

Skye swallows audibly. “She doesn’t—she’s.” She presses her lips together and pins him with a glare. “Simmons is a good person. She’s not like _you_.” She rolls her shoulders. “She won’t want you dead.”

“No?” he asks.

“No,” she says. She hitches her chin. “When the team catches up with you—and they will—they’re not gonna kill you. You’re gonna spend the rest of your miserable, worthless life in a tiny, dark cell.”

“We’ll see,” he says. Personally, he doubts it.

“Yeah, we will,” she says, looking back down at her laptop. “Even though it’s better than you deserve.”

She resumes typing, and he lets her continue in silence for a few minutes. He needs to get them off the ground—he’s delayed too long already—but he’s got one very important question left. It won’t make a difference, really, but…he’s curious.

“One more thing,” he says. “How’d you know?”

Although he half expected her to, Skye doesn’t pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “I found Eric.”

Damn it.

“I went looking for him when I finished my hack,” she adds, voice rising a little. “And I found his _bloody corpse_ in the storage closet—where you stuffed him in a vent like some—some—”

She stops abruptly, looking away and taking a slow, shuddering breath.

“I knew as soon as I saw him.” Her voice is tremulous as she meets his eyes again. “How could you—how could you do that to him?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he starts, and she scoffs.

“You didn’t have a _choice_ about brutally murdering someone who _helped_ us?” she challenges. “Who gave us a place to hide when half the freakin’ world was hunting us? You didn’t have a choice other than being a backstabbing traitor?”

She’s starting to tick him off again.

“If you want someone to blame, blame yourself,” he says lowly. “I wouldn’t have had to kill him if you hadn’t insisted on hacking the NSA.”

“No,” she says sharply. “Don’t even _try_ to—that’s crap and you _know_ it. You had a million other choices you could’ve made.”

He shrugs stiffly, uses the pain it causes to calm himself. “He would’ve blown my cover as soon as he saw the satellite feed. Crossing him off was my only option.”

“Because your cover is the most important thing,” she says derisively. “More important than any of _us_ —your _team_.”

“I’m a spy,” he reminds her. “That’s just how it is. How it has to be.”

“It could’ve been any one of us, couldn’t it?” she asks. “You’d kill us all without a second thought.”

She’s wrong, but she’ll never believe it. He doesn’t answer.

“Did May really leave?” she asks, voice barely a whisper. “Or did you kill her, too?”

That he’s _not_ going to let go unanswered.

“She left,” he promises. “Like I said, she got tired of how Coulson was treating her. That’s all.” He cracks his neck; his strength is returning, but as a consequence the ache he’s feeling all over is increasing. “Can’t say I blame her.”

Skye sneers, but it does nothing to hide the relief in her posture. “Of course you don’t. Not like _you_ would understand anything about loyalty.” Before he can respond to that, she continues, “Would you have?”

“Killed her, you mean?” he checks.

“Yeah.” She watches him evenly. “If she hadn’t left. Would you have killed her?”

“Yes,” he admits, and Skye nods like it’s exactly what she was expecting.

“And Simmons?”

…What?

“What about her?” he asks.

“She told me you didn’t want her to go,” she says. “About how you tried to convince her to stay.” She smiles sardonically. “She asked me to keep an eye on you, you know. Make sure you actually got some rest and didn’t spend the whole time worrying about her.”

Of _course_ she did.

He doesn’t know where Skye’s going with this, but if her goal is to hurt him, she’s doing a great job.

“So what would you have done?” Skye presses. “If she’d stayed? Would you have killed her, too?”

He’s not expecting the question, and it hits him like a physical blow.

How can she even _ask_ that?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. “I would _never_.”

“Oh, so you _do_ have a line,” she says, mocking. “Isn’t that a shock.”  Her lip curls. “So? What were you gonna do, then? Kidnap her? Force her into working for HYDRA? Put one of those _kill switches_ in her head like you gave Mike? Or maybe—”

She’s cut off by the sudden beeping of her laptop, and they both look down at it reflexively.

“What is it?” he asks, bizarrely grateful to have an excuse to change the subject.

“Decryption’s started,” she says. The interruption seems to have robbed her of her anger; she just sounds resigned. “Drive’ll unlock as soon as we’re at 35,000 feet.”

…So it’s based on _altitude_ , rather than location. Smart. She could have kept them on a wild goose chase for ages, crisscrossing the globe as she gave them false location after false location, and they never would have guessed that there was no location at all.

Still, this makes it all the more urgent that he get them in the air. His legs are feeling steadier, now; he thinks he can make it up the stairs.

“Good,” he says, and jerks his head towards the door. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t move. “Go where?”

“To the Cage.”

He’s not letting her have free reign of the Bus while he’s flying; who knows what she might get up to? And he can’t risk her changing the decryption as soon as his back is turned. She can spend the flight to Havana cooling her heels in the Cage, and maybe—if he’s really, really lucky—she’ll be in a more cooperative mood by the time he gets her to Garrett.

She’s still not moving, and he sighs.

“Don’t make me drag you,” he warns. It’s mostly an empty threat—while he’s confident of his ability to keep his feet, he thinks it’ll be a few hours before he’s capable of overpowering anyone—but it works.

“Fine,” she says, and stalks past him out of the lab.

He rolls his eyes and follows.

\---

Dealing with civilian control towers is a bitch on the best of days, and this is far from that, but he gets through it. Unfortunately, he’s no sooner started the Bus moving than his day proceeds to get even worse.

There’s a jump jet on the runway Air Traffic Control directed him to, and he’s pretty sure it’s the one the team took to Portland.

Fuck.

He really shouldn’t have wasted all that time talking to Skye.

“Maria Hill to SHIELD-616; you have thirty seconds to stand down and surrender.”

Great. Because that’s _just_ what this day needs. (How the hell did Hill even get involved in this, anyway?)

With a sigh, Grant reaches for a headset and pulls it on, opening the channel Hill is using to hail him.

“I repeat, stand down and surrender.” There’s a pause as she waits for a response and he considers just how to handle this. “You gonna answer me, Ward, or do I have to come over there?”

“Maria Hill,” he says. “Kinda hoped you went down with the Triskelion.”

A lie—he hasn’t thought of Hill at all since all this started—but it’s the best he can do on short notice. He knew there was a distinct possibility the team would find them before too long (who knows what kind of clues Skye might have left behind in Providence, if she knew before they left that he’s with HYDRA), and he thought he was prepared for it. But apparently he wasn’t; looking at the jump jet, all he can do is wonder if Jemma’s on it.

It’s a dangerous line of thinking, and not for the usual reasons.

Hill says something about him being a duplicitous lowlife—points for originality, even if “lowlife” is kind of weak, as insults go—but he’s not really listening.

Would Coulson (because Coulson must be involved with this, there’s no reason for Hill to care about Grant, otherwise) bring Jemma along on an op against her own soulmate? Would he be that cruel—that crazy?

To save Skye? Absolutely.

It’s not a pleasant thought, and his annoyance leaks into his voice despite his best efforts. “Gonna be honest with you, Hill. Havin’ a pretty bad day. So if I were you, I’d get the hell out of my way.”

He’s really not expecting her to agree—life is never that kind to him—but it’s worth a shot.

Of course, he doesn’t really _need_ her to get out of his way. It’ll only take a few seconds to switch the Bus into vertical takeoff mode, so he won’t really need the runway. And it’s not like she can shoot him down; the jump jet doesn’t have the kind of firepower necessary to do any significant damage to the Bus, and even if it did, Coulson would never let Hill put Skye’s life at risk like that.

There’s no way this ends in any way _other_ than Grant leaving with Skye (and fucking Deathlok, unfortunately).

Why does that make him uneasy?

…Because Coulson isn’t going to give up. He disobeyed orders, violated a dozen protocols, and killed two SHIELD agents to save Skye’s life when she was shot. There’s no way he’s going to leave Skye in Garrett’s hands. He’s going to keep trying until he either rescues Skye or gets himself killed in the attempt.

And he’s almost definitely going to bring Jemma along for the ride.

That’s the last thing Grant wants. The only thing worse than going the rest of his life without seeing Jemma again would be seeing her on the other end of his gun. He’ll cross off the rest of the team if he has to—even Fitz and Skye, as much as he’d hate it—but he can’t hurt Jemma. He _won’t_. And he won’t allow anyone else to hurt her, either.

His heart gives a phantom twinge that has nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with the fucking _heart attack_ he just had, and it reminds him that he’s not the only piece Garrett’s got on the board these days. _Grant_ can—and will—refuse to harm Jemma.

But he’s the only one of Garrett’s operation who will.

He can threaten to kill anyone who touches her—and he’ll be doing exactly that, just as soon as he gets back to base—but things can go wrong in a split second in the field, and killing someone after the fact won’t undo what’s been done.

He needs a way to keep Jemma safe. He’ll do what he can on his end, of course, but…

The best way to keep her safe is to keep her out of the field entirely. And the best way to do _that_ …

He thinks of his conversation with Skye, the naked terror on her face when he said _we’ll see about that_ , and he knows what he has to do. His stomach turns.

“Give up Skye and we’ll talk about it,” Hill says. It’s the perfect opening.

“You know what, Hill, I’m feeling generous,” he says. “I’ll make you a deal. You hand over Jemma, and I’ll give you Skye.”

There’s a long pause. He wonders, again, whether Jemma’s in the jump jet…and, if so, what hearing him ask for her makes her feel.

Could she be happy that he’s willing to give up Skye—his main reason for returning to Providence in the first place, which he’s sure they’ve guessed by now—in order to have _her_? Probably not. But what _does_ she feel, then? Angry? Betrayed?

He hopes it doesn’t scare her. He _wants_ it to—it’s kind of the whole point—but…still. Tactically, the best thing for him is if Jemma is frightened of him—if Coulson thinks she has _reason_ to be frightened, and therefore keeps her out of the field. But emotionally…

He doesn’t want her to fear him. Hate, anger, disgust—those he can take. But fear?

“And what do you want with _her_?” Hill asks eventually.

“With my soulmate?” he asks, mockingly. “Think about it. I’m sure it’ll come to you.”

He makes himself a little sick with the innuendo he slips into his tone, but it’s necessary. The more they’re worried about Jemma, the less likely Coulson is to be reckless with her safety.

He’s not there to watch her back anymore. The only way to keep her safe is to make them think she’s got something to fear from him. It’ll keep her out of the field and out of danger. This is the right choice. It’s the _only_ choice. No matter how much he hates it.

He never wanted to be the kind of man whose soulmate feared him.

But there are a lot of things he never wanted.

Hill is silent for nearly a full minute, and he busies himself with switching the Bus into vertical takeoff mode. Once that’s finished, he decides she could use a little push.

“So?” he asks. “You gonna hand Jemma over or not?”

“That’s not happening,” she says, and he can hear barely contained fury in her tone. “Ever.”

“Then I guess we’re done here,” he says.

“Not so fast,” she snaps.

She threatens to call up some F-16s, but—since she doesn’t have that kind of power anymore and, again, Coulson would never let her put Skye’s life at risk—he brushes her off.

The thought that Jemma might be in the jump jet is still nagging at him. Just the possibility is enough to make his fingers itch with the urge to touch her, and that’s not good. He needs to get out of here before his emotions win out over his ability to think strategically ( _again_ ) and lead him into doing something reckless, so after a few more insults, he ends the conversation.

As expected, Hill makes no move to attack—or follow—as he lifts off. He closes the channel, gets the Bus on course, and focuses on steadying his breathing as they climb towards 35,000 feet.

It’s probably just his imagination that the soulbond is stretching like an old rubber band, about to snap, as the runway falls further and further behind. In fact, he’s sure of it. But that doesn’t make it any less disconcerting.

He needs to stop this. He needs to leave thoughts of Jemma behind with LA. He’s done what he can to ensure her safety—will do more as soon as they reach Cuba—and now he needs to let go of her. If he’s lucky, he’ll never see her again.

(And that—that is still such a fucking painful thought, the idea that it would be _lucky_ to go without seeing her. But it’s miles better than any of the possible alternatives.)

He needs to let go. He needs to put emotion—put weakness—aside and get his head into the fucking game, before anything worse happens. Before any more mistakes are made.

He’s no sooner had the thought than his attention is drawn towards a beeping display. He stares at it for a second, honestly stunned by how fucking terribly this day is going.

The cargo ramp is opening.

He’s frozen for a second longer by the memory of October, that horrible day—that day even worse than this one has been—when Jemma was infected with the Chitauri virus. For a heartbeat, he flashes back to standing in the briefing room, the sudden snap of realization, and his frantic dash through the Bus to the cargo bay.

Then he shakes it off, because he has a job to do.

He switches the autopilot on and leaves the cockpit, drawing his sidearm as he goes. Deathlok’s halfway across the lounge, and he tosses a casual, “Coulson,” over his shoulder before Grant can even ask.

Of fucking course it’s Coulson. That explains the production on the runway; he must have snuck aboard the Bus somehow while Hill had Grant distracted.

He should’ve anticipated that. He would have, if he hadn’t been so focused on how to keep Jemma out of danger. There’s a distinctly troubling pattern emerging here, and if Garrett recognizes it, there’s going to be serious hell to pay.

But this is no time to worry about Garrett.

He sprints across the cabin after Deathlok, ignoring the accompanying pain (everywhere. Literally _everything_ hurts, from his face to his ribs to the bottom of his feet), and is greeted by a hail of gunfire as he reaches the catwalk above the cargo bay.

Of course.

Skye and Coulson are in Lola, the headlights of which have been replaced by _machine gun_ barrels, because that’s just how this day is going. Grant ducks and crosses the catwalk to get a better angle, then takes aim and fires.

He doesn’t want to hurt Skye. Coulson’s a different story.

Lola’s windshield, however, is apparently bulletproof, and all Grant’s doing is wasting bullets.

Deathlok finally gets in the game; he fires a projectile (something else Grant has less than fond memories of—one of those things nearly killed him in Pensacola) out of his gauntlet, and, in response, Coulson reverses off the edge of the cargo ramp.

God damn it. Whose idea was it to give that man a flying car?

Grant makes a few more wild shots, mostly out of frustration, and then turns away, swearing. Deathlok calmly crosses the cargo bay and raises the ramp, like their prisoner getting away is no big deal.

Hell, he’s probably happy about it.

Grant curls his hand around the railing, struggling for calm. He failed in every single one of his goals in going to Providence—get the codes for the hard drive, maintain his cover, take Jemma with him when he left—and now he’s failed the last of the orders Garrett gave him, which were to bring Skye to Cuba.

The hard drive is unlocked, but that’s fucking Deathlok’s doing, not his.

He hasn’t done a single thing right since he left Havana. He’s let his emotions—let his attachment to Jemma—distract him from his objectives, and he’s paid the price for it. How much of today did he spend talking to Skye instead of actually _doing_ anything? How many hours has he spent going in circles over Jemma, not just today but every day since HYDRA came out of the shadows?

Making plans to keep her, convincing himself that he can’t, telling himself to let go—and then denying it, thinking that he can find a way around it somehow, acknowledging that he can’t, and, finally, _sulking_.

He’s been whining to himself about Jemma all day. He let his concern for her—his need to see to her safety in his absence—blind him to the fact that Hill was stalling. He let Skye use her against him, not once but twice.

And all he has to show for it is an empty plane, a hard drive _someone else_ got unlocked, and more physical pain than he’s felt since that time he got caught in a rockslide.

Jemma is a weakness. Jemma is _his_ weakness.

He needs to do something about it.

In the meantime, he’s not in a hurry to return to Garrett with absolutely none of his objectives completed—he’s had a bad enough week already without paying _that_ hell. It might not be too late to go after Skye and Coulson; a classic red Corvette covered in bullet holes isn’t going to pass under the radar, not even in LA.

…Actually, going after them’s not a bad idea. He can bring Garrett not only Skye, whom he presumes Garrett wants because of her experience with the GH-325, but _Coulson_ , who was actually brought back from the dead by it.

That’ll ease the blow of Grant needing to have his ass pulled out of the fire by a fucking Incentives-influenced cyborg.

Yeah. He’s going after them.

“What are you doing?” Deathlok asks, following him into the lounge.

“I’m putting the plane down,” Grant snaps, tucking his gun away. The last thing he needs is to risk giving into temptation and shooting Deathlok, since _apparently_ he’s Garrett’s new favorite. “We need to go after them.”

“No, we don’t,” Deathlok says. “We stay with the plan.”

A fucking decade (or longer, depending how you look at it) Grant’s been Garrett’s right-hand man, and he didn’t need to be fucking threatened into it. SHIELD has screwed him over in so many ways this week.

“I don’t answer to you,” he reminds him sharply.

“Coulson and Skye don’t matter anymore,” Deathlok insists. “We have the data and Garrett wants us back. Right now.”

God damn it. He’s not gonna do himself any favors disobeying Garrett _now_.

But this—having Deathlok deliver Garrett’s orders—is the last fucking straw. Grant stops and turns to face him.

“Listen,” he hisses. “I’m not just gonna forget what you did to me back there. You try anything like that again, I _will_ kill you.”

And he will. The enhancements from the Centipede serum will make it harder, but not impossible. He’s been strategizing ways around it since December, when Coulson called Peterson in to help them against the Centipede soldiers, and he’s only improved them since Italy.

He can take him. It won’t be easy, but he can take him.

He starts to turn away, but Deathlok’s words stop him.

“It wasn’t personal,” he says. “I was just following orders.”

What a jackass.

But he lets it go. Deathlok stalks away, off to do…whatever the hell he does when he’s not _trying to kill Grant_ , and Grant goes to his bunk with the intention of changing.

In the last few hours he’s been in a physical fight, a gunfight, and had a literal heart attack; he’s aching all over and filthy with dirt, sweat, and even a little blood. What he’d really like is a shower, but he’s not willing to risk leaving himself that vulnerable while Deathlok’s around. A change of clothes will have to do for now.

It’s not the first time he’s been in his bunk since Jemma left Providence, but it _is_ the first time since that he’s been in it without an ongoing mission. He doesn’t have the need to cross off Koenig, the need to get the hard drive unlocked, or the need to keep Skye under control to distract him. Add to that the fact that, less than a day ago, she was helping him change into this very shirt…

The sudden storm of emotion shouldn’t be a surprise. Somehow, though, it is.

He tries to force it down as he strips (painfully) out of his shirt, but it’s no use. There’s a circular burn on his chest, right above his heart, and he can almost _hear_ what she would say if she were here right now—the familiar exchange they saved for when she was patching him up with none of the others around.

( _So, Agent Simmons, what do you think?_

_I think you’re a very attractive man, Agent Ward._

_Is that your professional opinion?_

_No. My professional opinion is that you’d be even_ more _attractive if you took better care with your safety. However, I believe you’ll live—at least for today._ )

Even the memory of her voice—of her playful scolding, of the bright smile she gave him whenever he made it through an op unharmed and the worried frown she gave him when he didn’t—is painful.And it's made all the more so by how recently she frowned at him—how recently she sat in his lap and kissed him and told him she loved him—in this very room.

But he can't think about that. Not now.

Instead he thinks, as he pulls on a new shirt, that she’d be furious about that stunt Deathlok pulled. She’d insist on a full physical, probably run no end of tests, and spend the whole time making pointed comments under her breath about…

Not about Deathlok, he admits to himself. Deathlok she’d only have sympathy for. Putting his connection to the team aside, Deathlok—Peterson—is, essentially, a Centipede soldier, and Jemma felt nothing but pity for the Centipede soldiers. Even when they kidnapped Coulson, she remained sympathetic; when Fitz would have seen them dead, she insisted that only non-lethal measures be used against them.

Jemma wouldn’t be angry at Deathlok. Not really.

She’d be angry at the person who gave Deathlok the order.

She’d be angry at Garrett.

Even the thought feels disloyal, but it’s the truth. Jemma would be furious with Garrett for putting Grant’s life at risk, even if it _weren’t_ in aid of an objective she wouldn’t want accomplished. She would be outraged, and would expect Grant to be outraged, too.

He’s not, though.

Is he?

…No. No, of course not. This isn’t the first time Garrett’s arranged for him to be injured in order to advance their agenda. It’s not even the worst. Grant isn’t angry. He understands the necessity of it.

He understands why Garrett gave the order. Grant’s given him the complete run-down on the team; he knows that Skye’s a soft touch, that she could never stand back and watch _anyone_ die, no matter their crimes against her.Garrett knew that Deathlok wouldn't actually have to go through with it. It was painful, but Grant's had worse. Garrett knew he could take it.

And it shouldn’t have been necessary anyway. Had Grant managed to do his job right, instead of getting distracted by his emotions—by his attachment to Jemma—the whole thing could have been avoided.

Attachments are weaknesses. If he ever doubted that, today has conclusively proven it. His attachment to Jemma saw him failing in all of his objectives, making mistakes at every turn.

And Skye’s attachment to him—and also to Jemma—saw her give up valuable intel and save the life of someone she sees as an enemy.

What happened earlier wasn't Deathlok's fault, but it wasn't Garrett's, either. It was his.

Wasn't it?


	21. Ragtag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant spends the three days following the events in LA going quietly crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, dear readers, here we are: chapter 21--and it didn't even take five months this time! Go me!
> 
> I can't promise when the next chapter will be along; the next couple weeks are crunch time for me at school, and--as you might've noticed--I've got approximately twenty other in-progress multi-chapters that could use my attention. But we're almost to the end, now, so I'm not giving up!
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant spends the three days following the events in LA going quietly crazy.

The data from the hard drive has significantly moved up Centipede’s time table; the scientists think they’re close to a breakthrough on the GH-325, which means it’s time to start looking for buyers for the Centipede serum. HYDRA will be getting first crack at it, of course, but Garrett’s an equal-opportunity bastard, and he wants to get as much for the serum as he can.

The problem is that Garrett’s method of advertising the Centipede serum’s potential is having Deathlok cause as much of a public spectacle as possible. For the past three days, Deathlok has been solely responsible for carrying out Garrett’s dirty work—meaning Grant’s been left with basically nothing to do.

The inactivity is driving him insane.

He dedicates a full four hours on the first day to making sure every single one of the agents on loan from HYDRA understand _exactly_ how severe the consequences for harming Jemma will be, but other than that, he’s got nothing to distract himself with.

With no distractions, it’s impossible to keep his mind off of Jemma—something that isn’t helped at all by the fact that Garrett’s made the Bus their new primary base. There’s not an inch of this plane that doesn’t have some memory of Jemma associated with it; there’s nowhere to hide.

He tries, on the second day. He heads down to the storage area, thinking that surely there must be at least one room or pod or closet in the cargo hold he won’t associate with Jemma.

He’s wrong.

In one of the storage pods near avionics, he finds one of Jemma’s sweaters abandoned on a table, and a memory hits him so hard he’d almost call it a flashback.

Less than two weeks ago, he volunteered to help her do inventory. He wanted some time alone with her, away from the stress the recovering Skye was inflicting on everyone, and figured a few hours in the cargo hold were the best he was gonna get.

He lasted all of twenty minutes before the way she kept chewing on her pen as she tried to calculate the exact number of polypropylene tubes she’d need for the centrifuge got to him. He backed her into a corner over her giggling protests, and inventory was forgotten for at least half an hour in favor of making out like a couple of teenagers.

Standing in the storage pod, holding her sweater, he can almost hear her breathless _If all you’re going to do is distract me, you need to leave_ —can almost feel her hands on his shoulders as she shoved him away and the quick, smiling kiss she pressed to his jaw when he offered to do a lot more than _distract_ her.

 _That’s not a very professional offer, Agent Ward_ , she told him, and he can still see the wide smile that ruined her stern tone.

He stares down at her sweater, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers as he remembers peeling it off of her—remembers the way she hooked her fingers in his belt loops and tugged him back when he tried to step away long enough to unbutton the shirt she was wearing under it—and asks the empty storage pod the question he should have asked her then.

“Who gives a fuck about being professional?”

He wasted so much time with her, toeing the line of regulations and appearances. He should have told Coulson to go screw himself; if he would let Grant stay on a field team with his soulmate, he should’ve let him _be_ with his soulmate. Hell, Grant should’ve pulled a few HYDRA strings and got an exemption to his exemption.

He shouldn’t have left Providence.

Wait.

No.

He shouldn’t have let _her_ leave Providence. He should have—he should have _what_? What could he have done differently? What move could he have made, what words could he have said, to get her here?

There’s no use dwelling on it. What’s done is done. The past can’t be changed.

He leaves her sweater in the pod. He doesn’t go down to the storage area again.

\---

By the next day, he’s given up on distractions. Being here, alone and knowing he’s lost her forever, is torture. Worse than torture, even. But there’s nothing for it; there’s no changing it and no distracting himself, so all he can do is live with it.

Garrett, of course, isn’t helping.

He’s over the moon with how close they are to being finished. He’s been all but bouncing for the past three days, his general jovial approach dialed up to eleven. It’s kind of pissing Grant off.

And it’s more than _kind of_ pissing Deathlok off. If Ace Peterson ever slips their hold, Garrett is really going to regret the last three days—for about as long as it takes Deathlok to brutally kill him, that is, and judging by the way Deathlok’s blank stare has been getting steadily more murderous, that’ll be about five seconds.

Seriously, Grant really hopes they don’t end up regretting they gave that guy super strength.

Of course, that thought just brings him back around to how _crazy_ he’s going with nothing to do. Not that Garrett has any sympathy, for him or for Deathlok. Grant’s (admittedly kind of petulant) opinion that he could’ve handled their most recent op—crossing off a drug dealer in Bogota—is greeted with disdain. And Deathlok’s barely-leashed anger…well, that just amuses Garrett.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re starting to enjoy your job,” Garrett says, and looks to Grant. “You get the impression he’s enjoying his job?”

Grant barely holds back a sigh. “Somebody does.”

“Well, I’d like to think we all enjoy our work,” Garrett says. “And why not? These are exciting times, full of rewards…which reminds me.”

He pulls out his phone and makes a quick call to Cybertek, ordering Zeller to stream Deathlok some footage of his son. Grant, watching Deathlok’s face after Garrett’s flippant _don’t mention it_ , subtracts a second from the count.

If Ace Peterson weren’t at risk, Garrett would be dead in four seconds.

As he falls into step behind Garrett, Grant makes a mental note to do a spot-check on the Incentives program’s security the next time they’re in New Mexico.

“How about that guy?” Garrett asks. “I’ve turned him into a new man.”

“Is that what he is?”

Garrett lowers his voice. “Are you still sore about what he did to you?”

Grant’s heart twinges. It keeps doing that; he’s considered getting it checked out, but the thought of a doctor other than Jemma putting their hands on him just pisses him off, so he dismisses the idea every time.

“No,” he says, voice carefully even, “I’m sore at you for making him do it.”

It’s the truth, and it’s a new one.

Deathlok stopping his heart wasn’t the first time Grant’s ever been hurt on Garrett’s orders. It wasn’t even the worst—that honor belongs to the time he spent two days being tortured by HYDRA agents pretending to be extremists in order to gain the trust of a prospective asset. He’s been hurt for the cause multiple times, and it’s never bothered him before.

So he has no idea why he would nurse a grudge for it this time, but he can’t deny the fact that that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“Look,” Garrett says, “We’re on the verge of completing something I’ve been chasing for twenty-five years.” He stops to set his beer on a table and turns a sardonic grin on Grant. “Can’t you just be happy for me?”

With that, he continues towards the stairs, leaving Grant to follow silently and ponder the unsettling realization that he’s _not_ happy for him. Not as happy as he should be, anyway.

With Jemma lost to him, Garrett’s the only family he has. Seeing him succeed in the objective he’s been after for so long should have Grant overjoyed—especially since part of that objective is saving his own life, meaning it’ll be that much longer before Grant loses _him_ , too.

He should be at least a little happy about this.

Self-reflection’ll have to wait, though, because Garrett’s destination is the lab, which means Grant needs to keep all of his focus on _not_ thinking of Jemma. He hangs back while Raina gives her report—the scientists have made that breakthrough they’ve been working towards; there’ll be initial results waiting for them in Cuba—and doesn’t say anything in response to Garrett’s pointed comment about wishing _everyone_ on his team had Raina’s success rate.

Grant doesn’t point out that Raina failed to get answers from Coulson after kidnapping him, or that she spent four months in a secure facility from which he had to personally rescue her. He also doesn’t bring up the fact that he’s done everything Garrett’s asked—everything—for the last fifteen years.

But he _thinks_ it—and thinks about bringing it up. That’s new, too, and kind of worrying.

It’s probably just the lab. He and Jemma spent more time here than they did anywhere else on the Bus; he’s hardly ever been in it without her. Of course he misses her the most strongly while he’s here.

With that in mind, he should probably go somewhere else.

For some reason, though, he can’t make his feet move. Raina and Garrett leave, but he stays where he is, leaning against a table and watching Garrett’s scientists move around Jemma and Fitz’s space. His heart gives another twinge, and he rubs at his chest. The burn from that thing Deathlok used to nearly kill him hasn’t faded yet; the skin above his heart is red and irritated and overly sensitive, and while it’s minor in comparison to all of his other wounds, it’s the one that bothers him the most.

He’s overly emotional. It’s a weakness. _Jemma_ is a weakness, the proverbial chink in his armor that’s making him question Garrett after fifteen years of unwavering loyalty.

Fifteen years. _Fifteen years_ , and this is what he gets?

Pain spikes in his cracked ribs as he pushes away from the table, and realization hits him like a physical blow—the reason why he can’t let go of what Garrett ordered Deathlok to do to him.

He remembers sitting in this very lab a few days ago, Jemma patching him up while he wove a story about what happened at the Fridge. Fitz was hovering, getting in Jemma’s way, while Skye asked nervous questions, and later, Grant barely had to wince before Coulson was ordering him to stay behind.

Fifteen years he’s been loyal to Garrett, and a team he worked with for barely eight months showed him more concern in four hours than Garrett has in all that time.

It shouldn’t bother him. The team was weak—full of attachments, easy to play—and the realization should just be confirmation that he’s on the right side.

But remembering how _unhappy_ Jemma was, the look on her face when Trip helped him out of his shirt and she saw his injuries, and comparing it to Garrett’s complete lack of remorse—to the way he hasn’t let go of Grant’s _one_ bad day but has expected Grant to let go of the call to have Deathlok almost kill him…

The berserker rage washes over him like a wave, and the next thing he knows, he’s in Coulson’s—Garrett’s—office, shouting.

“You were gonna let me die!”

“Okay,” Garrett says softly. He doesn’t look surprised by the shouting, so however Grant got here—and that he can’t remember is _really not good_ ; he hasn’t lost time like this since the day he was exposed—apparently it was at least long enough ago that he led into the topic with something a little less blunt. “First off, I think we should use our indoor voices.”

His calm, condescending tone only makes the rage spike, and Grant stalks a little closer.

“Since the day we met,” he says, obligingly keeping his voice low, “I have done _everything_ you asked.”

Five years. _Five years_ alone in the woods, stealing to survive—no one to depend on but himself. He could’ve left at any time, could’ve stolen a car or hitched a ride or spun a sob story for any of the people he kept stealing from, but he didn’t. He stayed right where he was, miles from civilization, because Garrett told him to.

And that’s the _easiest_ of all the orders he’s been given—has _followed_ —over the years.

“Not sure we can say everything,” Garrett muses, looking up at him, and the rage is so tight in Grant’s throat he can barely breathe through it.

“I gave up my _soulmate_ for you!” he snaps, careful not to let it become a shout. “Twice!”

Once when he let them take his timer and again, much more permanently, when he walked away from the team. Jemma’s out there in the world somewhere, hating him and—possibly, probably, if he’s either lucky or unlucky, depending on his mood at any given moment—fearing him, and that’s because of Garrett.

Garrett, who isn’t even grateful. “Now whose fault is _that_? I told you you could bring the girl along; don’t go blaming _me_ because you were too much of a soft touch to do what needed to be done!”

He’s said those words before, after Grant let Buddy—the only company he had, the only _friend_ he had, for five lonely years—go instead of killing him as ordered, and the reminder makes the berserker rage surge yet again. After three days when he couldn’t summon it even when he _wanted_ it (and he has wanted it, has wished desperately for something other than the useless despair that’s been weighing him down), his sudden lack of control is probably something to worry about, but he can’t think about consequences right now.

“I am _not_ that scared kid anymore,” he says.

“Then stop _acting_ like it,” Garrett growls, surging to his feet. He rounds the desk to approach Grant as he continues, “Stop being _weak_. All these years and you’re still playing the victim. Sometimes I ask myself why I ever bothered—”

The (unfortunately familiar) tirade is cut off by a grunt, and then a choked gasp as Garrett collapses. Grant catches him, forgetting his anger at once as he realizes how unsteady Garrett’s breathing is.

“John?” he asks. Garrett gasps for air. “John!”

Fuck.

He’s seen this happen before; Garrett’s Cybertek implants, the biomechanical system keeping him alive, are shutting down. If he doesn’t get them rebooted in the next five minutes, Garrett’ll be dead.

Panic swirls in his lungs, but it’s a lot easier to shut down than the rage was. The kit’s in the lab, and even if he has to physically carry Garrett, he can get them there in a lot less than five minutes.

And he does.

They get a few weird looks as Grant, with assistance from one of the disposable HYDRA agents, drags Garrett through the lounge and down the stairs, but all it takes is a single glare at the one staring, and whoever it is suddenly remembers they’ve got something to do on the other end of the plane. Garrett is limp at his side, breathing labored and pulse racing in the wrist Grant’s got his hand around, and Grant’s own heart is pounding hard by the time they reach the lab.

“Everybody out!” he orders. “Now!”

He and the HYDRA agent—Michaels, he thinks—get Garrett on the table as the scientists scramble to vacate the lab, and it takes him a second longer than it should to realize that Raina isn’t moving.

“I said get the hell out,” he snarls at her, and she stares at him with wide eyes. He jerks his chin at Michaels.

“You heard the man,” Michaels says, and physically drags Raina out of the lab as Grant goes for the kit.

“All right,” he says, mostly so he has something other than Garrett’s horrible, raspy breathing to listen to as he opens the kit, “Hang in there. I’ll get you stabilized.”

Garrett lifts his shirt up, revealing the panel in his side, and Grant lets muscle memory take over as he goes through the motions of rebooting him. His hands are as steady as always, but he _feels_ like he’s shaking all over.

It’s unfair of him to be so angry at Garrett. He owes Garrett _everything_ , and all Garrett has ever asked is his help in surviving. Of course he’s angry about Grant’s failure in LA; if not for Deathlok, the hard drive never would have been decrypted, and Garrett’s miracle cure would’ve been far out of reach.

The bars on the display begin to turn green, and Grant holds his breath.

“Biomechanics rebooting…” The kit chimes, and he sighs, relieved. “There. That should do it.” Garrett is still and quiet, and Grant keeps talking, just to fill the uncomfortable silence. “You scared me. Hasn’t happened like that in a while.”

“Yes, it has,” Garrett disagrees, and Grant pulls his eyes away from the reassuring, green-lit display to stare at him. Garrett’s own eyes are fixed on the middle distance, and a horrible, sick feeling claws at Grant’s throat as he realizes how _old_ Garrett looks. “Been happening more and more.” His breathing still sounds labored. “Biomechanics are fine. It’s my organs that’re failing.”

Something cold unfurls in Grant’s gut. “What are you saying, John?”

He doesn’t use Garrett’s first name often. It was too much of a risk in SHIELD, where they were supposed to be nothing more than SO and trainee, and not a habit he could afford to fall into when they were away from SHIELD.

But sometimes—like now—he just can’t help it.

“I’m dying,” Garrett says, turning to look at him, and the weight of his gaze keeps Grant from pointing out that they’ve known that for years. “Cybertek team gives me a month, two tops.”

Grant’s head spins. He doesn’t know what to say to that—what to _do_. It’s a good thing he was already leaning against the table; his knees are weak, and if not for the table’s support, he thinks he might be on the ground.

Two months, tops. He’s always known that Garrett was dying, living on borrowed time, but _this_?

“John,” he starts, but whatever he might have said—and really, he has _no idea_ what was about to come out of his mouth—is interrupted by the sudden ring of Garrett’s cell phone.

“Hold that thought,” Garrett says with a poor attempt at a careless grin, and answers the phone. “Yeah?”

His face goes dark. “Really…When?…Describe them…And they took it all?” Grant waits, watching Garrett’s knuckles whiten around the phone. “I’m disappointed, Diaz, I really am. We’ll be talking about this later.”

“Sir?” Grant asks.

“There was a security breach,” Garrett says. He ends the call and returns the phone to his pocket in a slow, deliberate manner that suggests he’s struggling with the urge to throw it across the room. “In Palo Alto.”

As Palo Alto, in this context, refers to Cybertek’s corporate headquarters, that’s…not good.

“What’d they get?” he asks. There’s a lot of intel, not to mention assets, stored away in Palo Alto. There’s no end to the possibilities.

“The Deathlok files.”

“The Deathlok files?” he echoes, surprised. All of the intel in Palo Alto is paper-copy only, to keep it safe from hacking, and there’s a _lot_ of paper to the Deathlok files. “ _How_?”

“Couple of scientists showed up for an interview and staged a little raid,” Garrett says, easing himself off the table. “Shoved the whole cabinet out the window and loaded it onto a van, then drove off before Cybertek security could stop ‘em.”

“Okay,” Grant says, absorbing that. “Points for originality, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Garrett smiles humorlessly. “Funny thing, those scientists? A couple of former SHIELD agents calling themselves Fitz and Simmons.”

The sudden shock of Jemma’s name, heard now, when he’s actually managed not to think of her for at least fifteen minutes, actually makes him numb. Which is probably just as well, since Garrett’s clearly watching him for a reaction.

There isn’t, strictly speaking, a real need to _hide_ his reaction. After all, it’s not like Garrett doesn’t know that Grant’s torn up about leaving Jemma behind—if he didn’t know the moment Grant walked back into the barbershop three days ago, that shouting match in Coulson’s office earlier would’ve tipped him off.

But for whatever reason, Grant still finds himself grateful for the layer of calm his numbness lets him hide behind.

“Must’ve been a cover,” he says evenly. “Jemma and Fitz don’t have the skills that kind of infiltration would require.”

“No,” Garrett agrees. “The description sounded like Coulson and May to me. Which still leaves the question of how the hell your old team found out about Palo Alto.”

A spark of indignation breaks through his calm, and Grant pushes away from the table, straightening to his full height as Garrett steps right up into his space.

“Now, you didn’t get sloppy, son, did you?” he asks, voice deceptively light.

“I’m not the one who used Cybertek to bait a trap,” Grant reminds him. “Cybertek led us to Quinn in Italy, Quinn had Deathlok, and now Deathlok’s working for you. It was only a matter of time before Coulson pulled on that thread.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It was.” It’s an effort to maintain eye contact when Garrett’s wearing that look, but Grant manages it. “If you want someone to blame, John, blame yourself.”

For a second, Garrett doesn’t say anything, just keeps aiming that _look_ at Grant, and something coils in his throat. He’s been withstanding Garrett’s barbs for the past few days because they were, for the most part, true—he _did_ screw up in LA and with Skye. But he won’t be blamed for this, not when it’s so clearly Garrett’s own error. Grant’s not playing whipping boy, not today.

After a tense pause, however, Garrett grins.

“Well, you’ve got me there,” he says, chuckling. “This one’s my bad.”

Grant relaxes, but only a little. Just because he’s not being blamed for this doesn’t mean it’s not bad news; there are a lot of secrets to be found in the Deathlok files, and just the thought of what Coulson could do with them makes him wince.

“They got _all_ the Deathlok files?” he checks, leaning back against the table.

“Whole damn cabinet,” Garrett confirms.

Sooner or later, those files will lead the team to Cuba, and Grant says so. Garrett doesn’t look happy about it, but he obviously agrees.

“We’ll have to pack it up and move out,” he says. “Coulson’s no match for my soldiers, but we can’t risk the lab being compromised, not when we’re so close.”

“You want me to arrange a move to Site B?” Grant asks. It’ll be in the files, too, of course, but so will all their other sites—and they’ve got plenty. Coulson doesn’t have the necessary manpower to search all of them; unless he gets very, very lucky, he won’t hit on which base they move to anytime soon.

Garrett shakes his head. “Better be C, just to be safe. And make it snappy; I wanna be out of Cuba by this time tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant says, and pulls out his phone. “I’ll get right on it.”

Site C is New Mexico, and as a fallback, it makes sense. They’ve already got a lot of their assets concentrated there—it’s where most of the hostages for Centipede’s Incentives program are kept—and, as it’s on US soil, it’ll make a good meeting place for the pitch they intend to make to the American government.

But it’s gonna be a stretch to get them there by tomorrow. Packing up the lab won’t be an issue—it’s designed to be something they can clear out of in a hurry—but getting all of their transport into the States undetected’ll be tricky. The jump jets and Quinjets have cloaks; the Bus, on the other hand, is gonna have to take a very, very careful flight path.

There’s no time to waste.

\---

There are some minor hiccups along the way—it turns out Quinn’s their new spokesperson, SHIELD’s fall affording him an excellent way to regain his lost reputation, and, same side or not, Grant still hates that guy, and Raina has some information on, of all things, Skye’s parents—but they get the lab packed in relatively short order.

There’s a lot of work to be done while they’re packing up the lab and arranging transportation for all of their people and supplies to the airfield where the Bus is parked, so Grant doesn’t have much time to dwell on _anything_ once they arrive in Havana. He’s got Garrett’s subordinates to oversee, Garrett to report to, arrangements to be made—both in Cuba and in New Mexico—and some packing of his own to do.

Once all that’s done, though? Once they return to the airfield, and all that’s left to do is load the Bus?

Then, he dwells. He dwells a _lot_.

Even _he_ can’t keep track of his thoughts. He jumps from Garrett’s condition to Jemma to Raina’s news about Skye to Jemma to how much he hates Quinn to Jemma to Garrett’s condition to Jemma to—

He’s going in circles, is the point. Garrett’s condition _shouldn’t_ be a big deal—they’ve got the GH-325 sample, as promised, and all Garrett should have to do is inject it and his problems should be solved—but it is, for a number of reasons. Not least of which is that they only have _one_ sample, and HYDRA won’t be too impressed if Garrett uses it to save his own life instead of advancing the Centipede program.

(Not that Grant cares too much about making an enemy of HYDRA, but they’ve already got SHIELD after them. Sooner or later, the number of enemies they’ve made is gonna catch up to them.)

As always, though, Jemma is the main focus of his attention.

The team knows about Cybertek—about Deathlok—and that line’s gonna lead them straight here. There’s no telling how long that’ll take, but knowing his team the way he does, Grant’s pretty sure it’s gonna be sooner rather than later.

Jemma could be on her way to Cuba _right now_ —could even be in Havana already—and, just like in LA, knowing that she’s close is enough to increase his longing for her tenfold.

Of course, there’s every chance that she’s _not_ coming to Havana, that Coulson will have the good sense to leave her behind, somewhere she’ll be safe. It was the whole point of his little play with Hill, to scare Coulson (and Jemma) into keeping her out of the field. But the chance that she’s _not_ , that she might be here—or that she might be somewhere else, alone and undefended, somewhere he could find her, somewhere he could talk to her and try to explain—

Ten minutes after their arrival at Abel Santamaria, he’s already driving himself to distraction. And considering how that ended in LA, he decides he’d better find something to do—something that’ll keep his attention and keep him out of the position to make stupid mistakes.

“I’m gonna do a few rounds of patrol,” he tells Garrett, “Make sure our perimeter’s secure.”

“Good thinking,” Garrett says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Gotta stay sharp, with Coulson so close on our tails.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant agrees.

Garrett stops him before he leaves. “Oh, Grant?”

“Sir?”

“If you find anyone but your old team, kill them,” he orders.

“And if I find my old team?” Grant asks, unease creeping along his spine.

“Bring ‘em to me.”

He’s not entirely sure what to make of the order, or the weird smile that accompanies it, but either way there’s only one acceptable response.

“Yes, sir,” he says.

“And take a few of the grunts with you,” Garrett adds. “I know you can handle any trouble on your own, but you’ve taken a few too many beatings lately. A couple more fights and you’ll need the GH formula more than I do!”

“Understood,” Grant says, as Garrett chuckles to himself. Grant’s not laughing, though; it’d only hurt his ribs, which feel like they haven’t stopped throbbing in weeks.

(If Jemma were here, she wouldn’t be laughing either. Actually, she’d probably be fussing at him about his decision to check the perimeter; he hasn’t gotten much of that rest she prescribed at Providence, and he’s sure, at this point, he’s earned at least three lectures. They might actually be at the point where she would bring Coulson into it to _order_ him to rest.

If Coulson and Jemma didn’t both hate him now, that is.)

Orders are orders, so Grant rounds up a few of the HYDRA grunts and, in two SUVs, they set off to check the perimeter.

Half of the airfield they’re in is surrounded by hills, some of them ridiculously steep, and _those_ they have to check on foot. There have been fly-bys in one of the Quinjets, of course, but this kind of landscape provides a lot of hiding places, and they can’t afford to miss any spies in the bushes, not when they’re so close to success.

So, after a quick sweep of the other half of the airfield—a half-built shack that was probably going to be a supply shed at some point, a tiny office, and a whole lot of empty space—Grant leads the HYDRA agents on a nice little nature hike.

It’s grueling and exhausting and by the end of it, Grant’s ribs are so sore that he kind of wants to shoot one of the grunts, just so someone else’ll be in more pain than he is. But as a distraction, it works. By the time they’ve checked every inch of the hills, he’s feeling nicely settled for the first time in days. A little physical exertion was exactly what he needed.

“Back to the plane, then, sir?” one of the grunts asks. Specifically, one of the ones who got to drive the SUVs to meet them at the other end of the hills; all of the agents who accompanied him on the hike are still trying to catch their breath.

It’s a little sad, actually.

“Not yet,” Grant says, checking his watch. The hike took a while; it’s possible someone might’ve snuck into position on the other half of the perimeter while they were occupied. “Let’s do another sweep of the other side first.”

“Yes, sir,” the man says, and Grant and the others pile back into the SUVs.

Better to play on the safer side, of course, but mostly, the precaution is just an excuse to put off returning to the Bus. He’s not expecting to find anything, not really.

Which is why it’s such a shock that he does.

As to _what_ he finds—or, more importantly, _who_ —well. That’s a lot more than a _shock_.

He’s still a good fifteen feet away from the shack on the far end of the airfield when he hears the voices within, and he signals the grunt accompanying him to circle around to the other side and wait for his signal. He holds in place as the other man nods and adjusts his course, giving him a few minutes to get into position, and then—after quietly radioing the rest of the patrol team—draws closer.

He stops three feet from the door, but that’s not strategy.

No, he’s frozen, stuck in place as his feet absolutely _refuse_ to move, because he recognizes that voice.

“I can’t handle square one again.”

That’s Jemma.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

Grant is fluent in seven languages, but he can swear in fifteen, and he does so—very, very quietly—as he tries to get a handle on himself. A war erupts in his chest, the berserker rage that she’s _here_ , in danger, with (from the sound of it) no one but _Fitz_ to protect her, battling giddiness and desire and the sheer _relief_ that she’s _here_ , right here, mere feet away from him, where he can see her, where he can touch her, the way he’s been itching to for days, where he can _explain_ —

Jemma’s voice pulls him back to himself.

“Hurry,” she’s saying. “I don’t want to linger here any longer than we must.”

There’s something in her tone he doesn’t like, a touch of fear or dread that doesn’t belong there at all.

“I’ll be quick,” Fitz says, and then lowers his voice to add, “He’s not going to touch you, Jemma. I promise. I’ll kill him if he tries.”

Any other time, the idea of Fitz killing _anyone_ would be hysterical, but Grant’s not laughing. Not when he’s pretty sure they’re talking about him. Not when he’s almost positive that it’s _him_ —or, more accurately, the idea of seeing him—that’s put that tone in Jemma’s voice.

“Thank you, Fitz,” she says, fondness lessening, though not erasing, that horrible undertone. “But I’d just as soon not put that to the test, so…”

There’s definitely fear in her voice. So his threat worked on Jemma just fine, leaving Coulson (presumably, considering Jemma and Fitz’s unprotected presence) unaffected.

And isn’t that just perfect.

“Right,” Fitz says. “I’ll go get Sneezy from the car.”

Grant’s not ready to face him—to face _Jemma_ —but it appears he’s out of time. He gives the signal—a low whistle, perfectly pitched to blend in with the bird calls that are ubiquitous on this part of the island—and steps into the shack’s doorway.

Fitz freezes three steps from the door, and if it were anyone else, Grant would’ve gotten a kick out of watching the blood drain from his face. As it is, his throat is tight; Fitz is his _friend_ , and seeing his obvious terror hits Grant in the gut the same way Skye’s tears did.

Jemma hasn’t noticed him yet—she’s focused on the grunt, who’s got his gun raised (though not pointed at her; looks like all those threats paid off)—but if she looks at him this way, he won’t survive it. He can’t.

There’s no choice. He has his orders.

He tries to push aside the weakness, but his voice is still rough when he says, “Long time, no see.”

Jemma drops her phone.

Grant jerks his chin at the grunt who, in turn, motions Jemma to turn around. She does so, slowly, and suddenly, he can’t breathe.

The look on her face is just as bad as he feared. She’s terrified. She only meets his eyes for a split second before her gaze skitters away, but that split second is all it takes to tear him open. It literally, physically hurts his heart, even worse than Deathlok’s attack did.

That’s his _soulmate_ , cringing away from him, cowering behind her best friend like she’s got something to fear, like she thinks Grant is going to hurt her.

And that knowing it’s his own fault—that it’s down to the threat he made with the sole intention of it getting back to her—doesn’t do a damn thing to ease the stabbing pain in his chest.

This isn’t what he wanted.

He’d like to say something to reassure her, but he just can’t think past the look on her face.

“Outside,” he says, falling back on his orders. Garrett said to bring any of his old team onto the Bus, so that’s what he’s gonna do.

“We’re not going anywhere with you,” Fitz says, voice shaking.

The grunt in the window cocks his gun.

“You don’t have a choice,” Grant says roughly. “You’re outnumbered and outgunned, Fitz. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Something in him goes cold as Jemma takes Fitz’s hand, drawing his eyes away from Grant. There are a thousand words hiding in the single glance they share, and the reminder of how close they are, how strong their bond to one another is, when Grant’s own with both of them has been broken, only tightens the knots in his stomach.

“Don’t make me make it a threat,” he warns, and Jemma nods slightly.

“It’s all right,” she says, quietly, the words meant only for Fitz.

“No, it’s not,” Fitz mutters, but as he’s already moving to leave the shack, Grant lets it pass unremarked.

He stands back to let them by, and Fitz is blatant about keeping himself between Grant and Jemma. It’s not unwise; having her pass so close after so long has him literally fighting himself to stay still, to not just reach out and draw her into his arms.

She wouldn’t welcome it, he reminds himself. She’s terrified and pale and still isn’t making eye contact; touching her right now would only make things worse. He can’t soothe away her fear when he’s the one causing it.

His heart more than _twinges_ at the thought.

Once they’re out of the shack, he falls into step behind them—close enough that he can stop any attempt at escape before it even begins—but it turns out to be unnecessary. The two SUVs he took on patrol are parked less than fifteen feet from the shack, the rest of the patrol team arrayed outside them.

His orders are to take any member of his team that shows up to Garrett, but it occurs to him, looking at the SUVs, that there’s nothing to prevent a little conversation first.

Strategically speaking, it’s better to separate Jemma and Fitz. Together, they’re a force to be reckoned with, and he wouldn’t put it past them to finagle some kind of dramatic escape. But apart? Neither one of them will flee without the other; he could take Jemma to the Bus and leave Fitz here, unrestrained and unguarded, and all he’d do would be chase after the SUV.

It’s tactically sound. But it’s not strategy that has him motioning two of the grunts toward Fitz.

“Take Fitz to the Bus,” he orders. “Jemma and I are gonna have a quick conversation before we join you.”

“No!” Jemma cries.

Fitz doesn’t bother with protests; he tries to fight the man who pulls him away from Jemma, but he’s easily overpowered. _Then_ he picks up the complaining.

“Let me go,” he says, struggling against the grunts holding him. “I’m not letting you—”

“Just a conversation, Fitz,” Grant says. It’s a miracle his voice is as even as it is; old habit has him wanting to protect Fitz, to cross off the men restraining him and get him and Jemma the hell out of here before anyone else comes along. “I’m not gonna hurt my own soulmate.”

The reassurance doesn’t seem to help; Fitz continues to struggle, only stilling when one of the grunts gets fed up and draws a knife to hold at his throat. That, however, only agitates Jemma.

“Let him go!” she demands, tensing like she’s about to throw herself at the men and physically pry them off of Fitz.

Even with Grant’s threats to hold the HYDRA agents in line, there’s no way that ends well for Jemma. He reaches for her, intending to hold her back for as long as it takes them to get Fitz in the SUV, but she spots the motion before he makes contact and scampers out of reach.

The fear on her face hasn’t stopped hurting him yet, and seeing her actually _retreat_ from him, even if only a few inches, rips the hole in his chest open even further.

Fitz has renewed his struggling, and Grant turns the rage swelling in his chest on the grunts.

“Get him out of here,” he snaps. “Take him to the Bus. _Now_.”

It takes longer than it should—Fitz is fighting like crazy, and only Grant reaching for her again keeps Jemma from throwing herself into the fray—but eventually the grunts get Fitz into the back of one of the SUVs. He sends it ahead with a nod, and almost all of the patrol team goes with it, leaving only Grant, Jemma, and the second driver.

“Give us some privacy,” Grant orders. The man gets into the second SUV at once, and Grant turns his attention to Jemma.

She still hasn’t looked at him.

“Jemma,” he says, stepping in front of her.

She swallows audibly, eyes fixed firmly on the ground, and his stomach knots even further.

“Jemma, please.”

His palms might actually be sweating. He doesn’t know how to do this. He needs to explain, to get her to understand.

He’s been telling himself for more than a week now that it’s over between them, that his allegiance always meant losing her and there’s no getting her back. He’s gone in circles about it, again and again, acceptance and denial and anger in an endless cycle. It’s interfered with his work, left him so distracted and inefficient that he nearly screwed things up beyond repair in LA.

He thought he’d finally accepted it, after that mess. He thought he’d finally, truly absorbed that she’s a weakness he can’t afford, a blessing he’s already lost.

But now, standing in front of her, looking at her beautiful face—even pale, even frightened—he knows for a fact that he’ll never accept it. He’ll never be able to let her go.

They’re soulmates; he’s not _supposed_ to let her go. They’re made for one another—destined—and that’s why he’s been going in circles: because his mind couldn’t overwrite instinct, couldn’t logic its way past the ingrained _need_ for Jemma.

She’s not a weakness; she’s his heart.

So, he needs to explain. He needs to make her understand, get her to see things his way.

He knows that’s what he needs to do.

But he has no idea where to even start.

Well, getting her to make eye contact is probably a good bet. Saying her name isn’t working, and he’s still itching to touch her, so he decides to give that a try. Just a little touch to her cheek, a tiny bit of skin contact to tide him over until they’re in a better place.

But reaching for her—for the third time today—turns out to be a mistake.

She flinches, eyes squeezing shut and face turning away like she’s expecting a blow, and for a second he’s honestly afraid he’s about to faint as his feet waver beneath him. He lets his hand drop.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says. He has to force the words out, and his voice is accordingly rough. “Jemma, you have to know—I would never.”

She opens her eyes, but he has no chance to celebrate the victory that she finally makes eye contact, because the look she pins him with does nothing to help his struggle to breathe.

She looks _disgusted_.

“Oh,” she says, voice shaking. “I think that ship has sailed, don’t you?”

Her voice isn’t the only thing that’s shaking. She’s trembling, but it’s not just from disgust.

She’s never looked at him this way— _any_ of these ways. None of the fights they had, not the minor ones or the one big one, ever put this kind of fury in her eyes, and he’s never seen anything like the terror and disgust that accompany it. She’s never aimed a single one of these emotions at him before; individually, they would have been enough to break him, but all at once?

There’s a burning in his throat, and it takes him a minute to gather the necessary composure to speak.

“I wouldn’t,” he vows. “I won’t.”

“Are you—” Her hands fist and then loosen at her sides. “Are you part of the Incentives program?”

His heart sinks at the hope he detects in her voice. “No.”

“Do you have a kill switch?” she asks.

“No,” he repeats. He can see her gearing up to ask further questions, and while he hates to quash what little hope she’s clinging to, he can’t stand here and watch it die little by little. “Everything I’ve done was of my own free will.”

She nods to herself, just a little.

“Then you can’t say you won’t hurt me,” she says quietly. “You already have, by everything you’ve done of _your own free will_.”

Somehow, the bitter twist to her echo of his words leaves his mind totally blank. All he can think to offer in reply is, “I _love_ you.”

She flinches again, and that it’s from his words and not his actions does nothing to ease the sting of it.

“Well, I don’t love _you_ ,” she snaps.

That hurts—tremendously. It hurts like nothing has ever hurt before; if he thought the look she’s still giving him was painful, it’s nothing to this. The words cause him pain of far greater magnitude than any injury he’s received over the course of his decade as a specialist—maybe even more than all of those injuries combined.

But they’re also a relief. Suddenly, he’s breathless for a completely different reason.

“You still can’t lie, Jemma,” he tells her, and he sounds almost giddy, even to his own ears.

That was a lie. It was _definitely_ a lie. Maybe she doesn’t want to love him, maybe she’s angry about loving him, but she _does_ still love him.

“You still love me,” he says. “You do.”

“No,” she denies. “No, I don’t.” She swallows. “I love the person I thought you were. But he doesn’t exist.”

“He does,” he says urgently. “I’m still _me_. I haven’t…” He has to curl his hands into fists to keep from touching her—from kissing that look off of her face. “There were things that I lied about, it’s true. And there are things I’m not proud of. But I’m still me—I’m still the same person.”

“No, you aren’t,” she says. “The man I love is a _good_ man. He never could have done even half the things you have. He wouldn’t even dream of them.”

He can’t really argue that, as much as he’d like to. His cover never would have killed Nash, let alone Hand or any of the others who came after. He definitely wouldn’t have held Skye against her will or broken Raina out of containment or…

Well, the point is, she’s not wrong.

So he changes tacks. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not a good man. But I _can_ be. I can be a good man for you, Jemma.”

She scoffs, looking for all the world like he’s claimed he can get her in touch with the Tooth Fairy.

“I don’t want you to be a good man for _me_ ,” she says, and though her expression is still disbelieving, there’s something almost plaintive about her voice. “I just want you to _be_ a good man.” She smiles painfully, eyes welling with tears. “But you’re not capable of that, are you.”

It’s not a question.

He doesn’t know what to say to that, how to convince her that he can be anything she wants him to be, if only she won’t leave him. He doesn’t know how to get her to understand that he won’t survive without her—that every word she speaks is tearing him open a little further.

But he has to try.

“I _am_ ,” he says. “I can be a good man—I can be anything you want me to be. I _love_ you.”

Apparently it’s the wrong thing to say. The despair disappears from her face, and her eyes—though still filled with tears—are once again lit with fury.

“How could you _possibly_ expect me to believe that?” she demands. “After _everything_ you’ve done?”

“Jemma—”

“You killed Agent Hand,” she says. “All of those agents at the Fridge. You released dangerous and, in many cases, _superpowered_ criminals into the world. You killed Agent Koenig. You kidnapped Skye!”

He’s shaking his head, helplessly, unable to deny the charges she’s laying against him. “Jemma, I had to, I didn’t have a—”

“You _just_ handed my best friend over to HYDRA!” she all but shrieks. “How can you look me in the eye and tell me you love me after _that_?”

She gestures angrily after the SUV, and any response he might have formed is lost, because his eyes catch on her wrist.

Or, more accurately, the black wristband she’s wearing.

It’s the kind of wristband that’s used to hide a timer, the fabric thick enough to block the glow, and the sight of her wearing it—like a widow, like a divorcée, like someone who wants to _forget_ her soulmate—is enough to knock any other thoughts right out of his head.

He forgets that he’s trying not to touch her—not to scare her—and seizes her by the wrist, remembering at the last second to keep his grip gentle. She freezes, but he ignores her reaction in favor of stripping the wristband away to reveal her timer.

His breath stutters in his chest. The wristband falls from his suddenly numb fingers.

The timer is exactly as it’s supposed to be, solid and green and displaying the date and time of their first meeting, down to the second, but the skin around it isn’t. It’s red and swollen and covered in tiny scratches, as if—as if—

“I tried to pry it off,” Jemma says, voice eerily calm. “I knew it was hopeless—it takes surgery to remove a timer—but I suppose I wasn’t thinking clearly. I just wanted it gone.”

He can’t look at her. He can’t tear his eyes away from the state of her skin, from the evidence of just how badly he’s fractured things. It’s like all the blood’s drained right out of him; he’s cold all over.

She tried to erase—to remove—their connection.

“You—” He swallows, tries again. “Why would you—”

“You get to escape the reminder,” she says, her free hand coming up to brush against his bare wrist. It’s the first contact she’s initiated today, but he can’t get any enjoyment out of it. “Why shouldn’t I?”

Fuck.

“No,” he says. “No, I’ve told you how much I hate—how much I regret letting them take my timer. It was a _mistake_ , Jemma. I wasn’t trying to—to escape anything.”

Her hand falls away, and something in him cries out. “I don’t believe you.”

Damn it.

She’s gone too long without an explanation. Of course she thinks the worst of him; he hasn’t given her a reason _not_ to. All she can know is whatever Skye had to tell her—and, of course, the threat he implied against her at the airfield in LA.

Of course she doesn’t understand. She’s had three days to stew in her misconceptions, to draw all the wrong conclusions and go searching her brilliant mind for evidence to back them up.

He shouldn’t have let her leave Providence. He should’ve pushed it, should’ve _made_ her stay. He should never have let her out of his sight.

“It was the truth,” he says, forcing his eyes away from her timer—from her scratched and swollen wrist—to meet her gaze. “I hate not having my timer. The last few days—it’s been horrible. I _miss_ it. I miss _you_.”

Her mouth twists unhappily. She doesn’t return the sentiment.

“I _love_ you,” he adds—a little because he just wants to say it again, but mostly because he wants a reaction.

And he gets one. Jemma wrenches her wrist out of his hold, backing away from him.

“If you love me,” she says, “then fetch Fitz back and let us go.”

He can’t contain a wince at just the thought of what Garrett would say to that.

“I can’t,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I have my orders.”

She looks away from him, laughing humorlessly. “Of course.”

“Jemma?”

The disappointed look she turns on him is, somehow, just as bad as every other look she’s turned on him today. Each time he thinks he’ll have to hit his limit on how much it can hurt, and each time he’s proven wrong; at this point, the hole in his heart has become a gaping chest wound, and he’s starting to accept that it’s only gonna get worse.

“Three times now, you’ve chosen Garrett over me,” she says, quietly. The sheen of tears in her eyes makes the disappointment even worse; it’s almost a relief when she looks away again. “How am I meant to believe you love me after _that_?”

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to convince her how wrong she is, how much she means to him.

“Jemma, please—”

“I didn’t realize it at first,” she says, almost to herself. “But that’s what you were doing, wasn’t it? That’s why you kissed me the way you did at the Hub—because you thought you were saying goodbye.  You couldn’t have anticipated that you’d need to come back for Skye. It was supposed to be the last time.”

“Yeah,” he admits, mouth dry. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

She nods like it’s just what she expected to hear, and Grant doesn’t need to see her face to know that it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

“You have no idea how hard that was for me,” he adds, drawing her eyes back to him. “But I didn’t have a choice.”

She scoffs. “Yes, you did! No one forced you onto the team going to the Fridge, Grant, and none of us knew you were HYDRA. You could’ve stayed with the team and—and pretended.” She hugs herself, looking so tired and so miserable that he has to physically step back to keep from touching her. “You’d still be a liar, but at least you wouldn’t be…everything else you are.”

That? That stings. It’s nothing compared to everything else—to the look on her face, to the scratches around her timer, to the fear in her eyes—but it still hurts.

He has to make her understand.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he repeats. “As soon as we were away from the Hub, Hand ordered me to shoot John. Did you know that?”

He knows she doesn’t—how could she?—but it has the desired effect. She’s stunned into silence.

“If I hadn’t gone with them, John would be dead,” he says. “You know what he means to me—who he is. Could you stand back and watch _your_ father get murdered?”

“No,” she says, arms falling to hang limply at her sides. “No, I couldn’t.”

“So,” Grant starts, only to be interrupted almost immediately.

“But I couldn’t stand back and watch him _be_ a murderer, either,” she says. “I certainly couldn’t _help_ him.” She drops her gaze to focus on her timer, tracing around the edges of it with her thumb. “All the people he’s hurt, everyone he’s killed—their lives are on your head just as surely as the lives you’ve personally taken. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Jemma, I—”

“ _You_ chose Garrett over me when you left the Hub,” she interrupts sharply. “You chose him over me when you left Providence, and you chose him over me when you ordered Fitz taken to the Bus just now. But more than that…” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Every time you’ve stood back and let him hurt people, you’ve chosen him over me. Again and again and _again_.”

The back of his throat is burning again. He thinks he might be sick. “I’ve been working for John for fifteen years.”

He watches the anger drain out of her, and for a second, he hopes—but the exhaustion and disappointment that’s left behind isn’t much better.

“Then I suppose,” she says heavily, “we never really stood a chance.”

 _That_ makes him angry. Garrett’s the only reason he even survived long enough to meet her; it’s not fair of her—not fair at all—to use him as an obstacle between them. The berserker rage rushes into him, filling some of the hollow in his chest, and it’s not easy to keep it leashed.

He doesn’t want to hurt Jemma. He doesn’t want to scare her.

He just wants her to _understand_.

“If you would just give me a chance to explain,” he tries. “This isn’t unfixable.”

“Yes, it is,” she disagrees. Her eyes are welling with tears again. “You’re wasting your breath, Grant. All the words in the world won’t excuse your actions. You might as well just take me to the Bus.” The smile she gives him is probably supposed to be mocking, but mostly it just looks miserable. “After all, you have your orders.”

She tries to move past him, heading for the SUV, and—rage boiling his blood—he catches her by the arm, swinging her back around to face him. Momentum sends her stumbling into his chest, and he grips her other arm, too—partly to steady her and partly to hold her in place.

Having her so close after so long, feeling the press of her body against his, douses the rage like little else has. Half of the tension disappears from his spine, just like that.

But he can’t enjoy it.

Jemma has gone still, eyes wide, and her heart beats a frantic, panicked rhythm against his chest. She’s terrified, all the fear that’s gradually drained out of her over the course of their conversation returned with a vengeance, and it kills him. Slowly—so, so reluctantly—he eases back a step, putting a little distance between them.

“No,” he says, careful to keep his voice gentle. “No, you’re gonna listen to me. You haven’t even given me a chance.”

Her eyes flicker over his face, and then away. She lifts her chin, mouth firming.

“Fine,” she says, and her voice trembles. “Fine. Have your say, then.”

“John saved me,” he tells her. “I was a stupid, scared kid who tried to get back at my brother—and my parents—for abusing me and only ended up landing myself in trouble. I was in juvie, looking at life in prison, when I met John.”

Jemma jolts a little, but doesn’t speak and doesn’t make a move to interrupt, so he keeps going.

“He broke me out, taught me—taught me how to be a man, how to stop hiding behind the excuse of what my family did to me and how to take my life back. He gave me a purpose, a reason for _existing_. HYDRA? HYDRA’s nothing. I don’t care about HYDRA. I care about John, and he’s dying.” His heart is in his throat, and it’s not easy to speak past it. If he messes this up, if he can’t get her to understand… “Everything I’ve done has been for John. I owe him _everything_ , Jemma. I can’t let him die—and I can’t abandon him. We’re family.”

Slowly, as he speaks, Jemma’s eyes drift back to his. She’s crying now, silent tears slipping down her face, and he has to fight the urge to hug her close.

“Jemma?”

“And what are we?” she asks.

He frowns. He doesn’t know what she’s expecting. “We’re soulmates.”

“That means something to you?” she presses.

“How can you ask me that?” He flexes his fingers around her arms, battling the need to pull her closer. “You have no idea—it means _everything_.”

She laughs, quiet and tight, like it’s being wrung out of her, and swipes the heel of one hand along her cheeks, brushing her tears away.

“I don’t know which possibility is worse,” she says, letting out a slow breath, “If you’re lying, or if you honestly don’t see what’s wrong with what you’re saying.”

What’s wrong with what he’s saying? “I’m not lying.”

“Maybe not,” she says. She drags her bottom lip between her teeth, and for a second, he wants to kiss her so badly that the pain of not following through hurts even worse than the metaphorical wound in his chest. “Maybe it wasn’t all a lie. Or maybe it was.”

“It _wasn’t_ ,” he insists.

“Either way,” she continues like he hasn’t spoken, “It doesn’t make a difference. You can’t explain away what you’ve done, Grant, and you can’t take it back.”

Fuck. “Jemma—”

“Just take me to Fitz,” she says tiredly. “You wouldn’t want to leave Garrett waiting, would you?”

She obviously means it as a barb, but she’s not wrong. He didn’t give those HYDRA grunts much in the way of instruction; if they took Fitz straight to Garrett instead of waiting for Grant to bring Jemma to the Bus, Garrett’ll be getting impatient by now. He’ll have plenty to say about this, about Grant’s desperate and completely unsuccessful attempts to win Jemma over, and Grant’s really not in the mood to hear it.

In any case, winning Jemma back isn’t gonna happen in one conversation. He’s not giving up—for as many times as he’s told himself over the past week that he had to let her go, it’s obvious he’s just not capable of that—but he’ll let her have some time. He’s made his intentions clear, reassured her that he really does love her and that he’s not gonna hurt her. He’ll let that sink in for a while, let her _see_ that he won’t do anything against her, and revisit this conversation later. Tomorrow, maybe.

Jemma’s here, with him, where he can keep her safe, and she’s not going anywhere. He can afford to take his time convincing her of his sincerity.

“Fine,” he says, and forces himself to let go of her. “We’ll talk about this later.”

She doesn’t respond. She just climbs into the SUV without a word when he opens the door for her.

The drive to the Bus is short, and Grant leaves Jemma to her thoughts during it. For his own sake, he pretends not to see the way she hooks her thumb in her sleeve and tugs it down to cover her timer—or the way her lip trembles when the green glows clearly through the fabric. He occupies himself calling ahead to let Garrett know they’re coming, in a very brief but somehow unsettling conversation.

Jemma doesn’t make a sound until they reach the Bus, where—upon spotting Fitz waiting at the bottom of the cargo ramp, flanked by three grunts and frantic but unharmed—she lets out a shuddering breath. Fitz is a little more vocal; when Grant lets Jemma out of the back of the SUV, he actually says, “Oh, thank Christ,” loud enough that one of the scientists milling in the lab looks their way.

Grant gives them a second to cling to each other and exchange quiet reassurances that they’re fine. There’s a little bit of jealousy, cold and ugly, brewing in him—because Jemma’s all over Fitz, whereas _he_ couldn’t touch her without making her flinch—but he pushes it aside. It’s his own fault; _he_ was the one who made that threat at the airfield, who left her alone to suffer under her misconceptions. He only has himself to blame.

Still, he has his limits, and as the hug draws out, he reaches them pretty quick.

“Let’s go,” he orders. “Upstairs.”

He doesn’t wait to see what look the order gets him; he leads the way up to the lounge, leaving it to the HYDRA agents to force the issue. (It takes a second; most HYDRA agents aren’t great with making things happen without violence, and Grant’s threats about what violence aimed in Jemma’s direction would get were very, very explicit.)

Garrett’s in the lounge, giving some last minute orders, and he looks more than pleased to see Jemma and Fitz.

“Here they are,” Grant says, mostly just to say _something_. He catches Jemma’s eye as he moves to stand beside Garrett, and the accusing look she’s wearing cuts right through him.

It’s written all over her face that she views this as another instance of Grant choosing Garrett over her, and it’s hard to argue when he’s literally just left her side to stand at Garrett’s. There’s something about viewing the scene from this angle—about Jemma and Fitz framed by three large and menacing men—that sits uncomfortably with him. The same old instinct that he had to fight when Fitz was being put in the car returns, and he has to tamp down on the rising need to fight his— _their_ —way out of here.

This is ridiculous.

“This is our plane,” Fitz says. “We want it back.”

Speaking of ridiculous…

“Really?” Garrett asks, mouth curving in amusement. “Just like that, kid?”

Fitz doesn’t have a response, and Garrett doesn’t wait for one, instead turning to the agent still waiting for the last of his orders.

“Coulson probably figured out we’re using the barbershop,” Garrett says. “Call Kaminsky. He’ll know what to do.”

The agent runs off to obey, and Garrett turns to the grunts arrayed behind Jemma and Fitz. Grant’s watching them, not the agents, and while it’s hard to focus on anything but Jemma—on the look she’s giving him, the silent accusation and disappointment—he still catches the move Fitz makes for his pocket as Garrett gives the order to keep the Bus in harrier mode until they’re over the Gulf.

One of the agents turns to deliver the order to the pilot even as Grant steps forward to grab Fitz’s arm before he can take his hand out of his pocket. It draws Garrett’s attention, and he moves closer.

“What’s he got there?” he asks.

Grant slides his hand down to Fitz’s wrist and keeps a tight grip on it as he tugs Fitz’s hand into view, but Fitz makes no move to resist. He’s shaking, something that shouldn’t upset Grant nearly as much as it does, and he’s holding…

“One of those prank joy buzzers,” Grant says, bemused.

“Yeah,” Fitz says lowly. “You know me. Always kidding around.”

Even as Garrett turns away with a dismissive smirk, Fitz hits the buzzer, and Grant’s estimation of the threat level is proven horribly, horribly wrong.

Electricity crackles. Two of the lamps in the lounge spark and go dark. And Garrett grunts and falls against a seat, clutching his side.

“What the hell was that?” Grant demands. He barely takes a second to snatch the buzzer from Fitz before running to Garrett’s side, and it falls from his hand, immediately forgotten, when Garrett provides the answer.

“An EMP,” he rasps.

Fuck. Grant doesn’t even wanna _imagine_ the kind of damage that just did to Garrett’s Cybertek implants, and he sure as hell doesn’t wanna imagine how long Garrett’s failing organs will last without their support.

The grunt behind Jemma must’ve moved fast, because he’s already got her secured. He’s just holding her by the arms, nothing that’ll hurt her unless she goes crazy with the escape attempts, but she’s not going anywhere.

The man behind Fitz, however, is a little slower, leaving Fitz free to lunge towards them.

“Looks like the joke’s on you,” he spits as the grunt drags him back.

The floor shudders beneath their feet as the Bus takes off, and Grant steadies Garrett by the shoulders. He’s still hunched over, one hand clutching his shirt over the panel in his side, and his breathing is worryingly uneven.

“Stay here,” Grant says, helping Garrett into one of the recliners. “I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer; he just books it to the lab as fast as he can.

Raina’s there, and she’s alone. Grant doesn’t waste time asking where the scientists are or what she’s up to; he grabs the kit and its resupply bag from their respective shelves as he gives her a very brief summary of Fitz’s actions, then orders her to call Cybertek and fill them in. He’s out the door and up the stairs in seconds; his whole trip, from the lounge to the lab and back, takes less than a minute total.

It’s still too long; when he reenters the lounge, he finds that Garrett has visibly worsened.

Aside from the two grunts restraining Jemma and Fitz, all of the HYDRA agents are just standing around, staring uselessly. Grant shoves one of them out of the way in order to take the other recliner, and it’s only force of will that keeps his hands steady as he sets the kit up on the coffee table.

“I’m glad that I did it,” Fitz says. Grant ignores him. “You hear me? You lose, we win.”

In his peripheral vision, he catches Garrett twist to look at him. “You’re dead.”

“Well, no worse than you,” Fitz says. “And you don’t have to take orders from him anymore, Ward. Ward!”

The kit’s booting up, so Grant risks a glance away from it, towards Fitz. He’s frantic, desperate, with no sign of the hate or fear he was directing Grant’s way earlier. He wonders what changed between Fitz and Jemma’s hug and bringing them upstairs, but there’s no time to dwell on it.

Jemma is still and silent. There’s no time to dwell on that, either.

“Let him die,” Fitz pleads. “He _deserves_ to die.”

The frantic racing of Grant’s heart only increases at that, because if—when, it can’t be if, it _won’t_ be anything but definite—when Garrett survives this, he’s gonna be pissed, and Fitz isn’t helping his case any. It’s gonna take a lot of persuasion to keep Garrett from hurting him too badly.

Grant looks to the agents restraining Jemma and Fitz. They’re both watching him, waiting for orders; he’s been well established as Garrett’s second, and none of them will move without his or Garrett’s say-so—something Garrett’s in no position to provide.

“Get them out of here,” Grant orders. His panic—worry for Garrett, for Fitz, for _Jemma_ —and the remnants of his earlier emotional whiplash while talking to Jemma make his voice louder than it should be, but it does the job, so he doesn’t bother to lower it as he adds, “Clear! Everybody out!”

It’s not like the grunts don’t know _something_ is up—first Garrett needing to be carried to the lab earlier, now this—but there’s no need to give them an up close and personal look at Garrett’s vulnerable spot.

As soon as the lounge is clear, Garrett collapses forward with another grunt. It’s clear the effort of holding himself upright is too much, so Grant—with some muttered swearing—helps him lie down on top of the coffee table.

“Hand me that pillow, would you?” Garrett asks, motioning towards the couch. He’s trying to sound light-hearted, but his difficulty breathing makes his voice raspy, and Grant’s heart picks up speed again. “It’s like lying on a rock.”

Grant silently grabs one of the throw pillows from the couch and arranges it beneath Garrett’s head, then returns his attention to his health. He gets the kit hooked up to Garrett’s side well enough, but that’s about all that goes right.

He’s not getting any readings. He tries rebooting the kit, then hooks Garrett up to the back-up and running a hard reboot on the biomechanics themselves. Nothing works.

“The internal battery must have fried,” Grant says, helplessly flipping a switch back and forth. He hears Raina come up behind him, but ignores her in favor of Garrett. “I’m gonna have to open it up, see if there’s a mechanical fix.”

He’s not holding out much hope on that score, though; these are advanced biomechanics that just got hit with an EMP, not a fucking broken-down truck.

“I talked to Cybertek,” Raina says, and Grant looks up at her. “They’re prepping a facility in Miami.”

“Good,” Garrett says weakly, and grabs on to Grant’s jacket. He pulls himself up by it, just a little, and lowers his voice. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Yeah,” Grant says at once. “Anything.”

“Put down Fitz,” Garrett rasps.

Grant’s mind stutters to a halt. “What? No. There’s plenty of time.” He needs to put it off long enough for Garrett to calm down, long enough that reason can win out over Garrett’s immediate need for vengeance. “I won’t leave you.”

“And I’m telling you to cross him off for me,” Garrett says. “And if you can’t get your girl under control, you cross her off, too.”

Grant’s heart stops. “What?”

“You heard me,” Garrett says.

How can he say that? How can he _ask_ that of Grant?

There’s something Grant should say, some magical combination of words that will defuse this situation, but he can’t figure it out. His mind is too full of other things—May on a roof in Belfast, telling him his worry for Jemma was human, Jemma cuddled into his side in this very room, telling him it was only _human_ to want her nearby, Coulson in Lola’s driver’s seat, encouraging his attachment to Jemma, Trip in a random closet in Beirut, daydreaming about his soulmate without any sign of hesitance.

Jemma he could explain away— _has_ explained away, because they’re supposed to want to be together. But Coulson? Trip? _May_?

It occurs to him, for the first time—why is it the first time?—that Garrett’s the only person he’s ever met who called soulmates a weakness. Even SHIELD, who taught him to hide his connection to his soulmate, who took his timer, who gave course after course on manipulating the expectations of a mark, never categorized an agent’s actual soulmate as anything but good.

He can’t kill Jemma. He can’t and he won’t; the order is honestly the most ridiculous one he’s ever been given. It’s absurd, unthinkable, _impossible_.

He can’t cross her off, but—if he follows his orders—he’ll have to. He won’t be able to get Jemma under control, not without at least a week of persuasion, and _definitely_ not after killing Fitz.

If he obeys Garrett—(and that’s never been a question before, but it’s a big one now)—he’ll have no choice but to kill them both.

But he _can’t_.

“That’s not a weakness, is it?” Garrett adds.

Grant knows there’s only one acceptable response to that, but for a heartbeat, he honestly can’t think of it.

He’s heard those words from Garrett before—has heard them loads of times, actually, enough that he actually hears them in his sleep on occasion. Which is, of course, the problem, because he’s suddenly remembering a specific instance of hearing them in his sleep.

Namely, in October. In Italy, when he took Jemma to one of his properties for her traumatic leave—he dreamed about those woods in Wyoming, re-lived that last day with Jemma in Buddy’s place. He dreamed about Garrett ordering him to kill Jemma and, when he hesitated, asking if it was a weakness.

At the time, he thought it was a nightmare. He laughed it off as ridiculous, something Garrett would never do.

In hindsight, it looks like a warning.

He thinks of the conversation earlier, in the office, Garrett reusing another old line— _don’t go blaming_ me _because you were too much of a soft touch to do what needed to be done!_

The first time Garrett said that to him was after Grant, unable to bring himself to kill the only friend he had, scared Buddy off instead of shooting him. To be exact, Garrett said it three minutes after using a sniper rifle to kill Buddy anyway.

The parallel’s impossible to ignore. If Grant doesn’t kill Jemma—doesn’t take his own soulmate’s life—Garrett will do it himself. Or, more likely—considering his condition—order one of the numerous agents on this plane to do it for him.

His lungs constrict at the realization.

“Grant,” Garrett snaps. “Is it a weakness?”

The repeated question—or rather, the look that accompanies it—brings on a new and arguably worse epiphany.

There’s no sympathy in Garrett. He’s impatient, annoyed, angry—but not sympathetic. He doesn’t give a damn that he’s just ordered Grant to kill his own soulmate. He’s not giving any thought to how hard it would be, how much it would cost Grant. He doesn’t _care_.

Staring down at the man he’s spent the last decade thinking of as his father, tears burning at the back of his throat, Grant has the sudden horrible, unbearable, completely unexpected and, he thinks, very _belated_ realization that Garrett doesn’t give a fuck about him.

“ _Grant_.”

“No,” he says. “It’s not a weakness.”

“Then take care of them,” Garrett whispers, letting go of Grant’s jacket. “I’ll take care of me.”

And that’s all he’s ever done, isn’t it? Grant can’t believe he’s never seen it before.

Everything Garrett’s ever done for him was for his _own_ purposes. Even breaking him out of juvie, getting him into SHIELD, training him—sure, it was a lot of time and effort, but look what it got him: a devoted, loyal second who would follow—who _has_ followed—him into hell.

“I’ve cheated death plenty of times,” Garrett adds, and Raina steps forward.

“I’ll stay,” she offers.

Grant nods once and pushes himself slowly to his feet.

He feels numb, distant, his limbs heavier than usual. It takes everything he has in him to stand up straight.

Fifteen years of loyalty.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jemma accuses, _you’ve chosen him over me. Again and again and again._

He leaves the lounge, but he doesn’t go far. He waits, just out of sight, and listens.

There’s a reason Garrett’s pushing him to take care of Jemma and Fitz right this second, and Grant wants to know what it is. So he leans against the wall, just inside the hall leading to the cargo bay stairs, and eavesdrops on Raina and Garrett.

Jemma’s not here—he doesn’t know where the grunts took her, other than not-the-Cage—but he’d almost swear she is. He can almost feel her, hovering at his elbow, her fingers linked with his, as he listens to Garrett tell Raina he’s been using her Centipede serum to stay alive the last few months. He’s been so far gone that it couldn’t give him super-strength, but it was the push he needed to keep going.

Maybe that’s the reason he’s telling _her_ , and not Grant, about the mechanical failsafe in his side.

Or maybe it’s just that he didn’t care enough to fill Grant in.

“I’m afraid your entire system is shutting down,” Raina says—though, to Grant’s ears, she sounds more fascinated than sorry.

“Maybe you can jump-start it,” Garrett rasps. “With this.”

The two of them are focused on each other, so they don’t notice when Grant moves back into the lounge to see what Garrett’s holding out—although he’s got a pretty good idea already.

Sure enough, it’s the GH-325.

The GH-325 that Skye was shot—twice—to find. The GH-325 that Grant was given a heart attack (a fucking _heart_ _attack_ , he’s been tortured and beaten and nearly killed a thousand times for Garrett) to unlock the secrets of. The GH-325 Grant _gave up his soulmate_ —and his _team_ —to deliver.

And shouldn’t that have been a major fucking clue? Garrett’s complete lack of sympathy then, his careless approach to Grant’s world falling apart, the total absence of compassion—

Grant’s been so blind. It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

Not that he _can_ swallow, not with his throat swollen shut the way it is. He can barely even _breathe_.

He knows what he has to do. It’s necessary, the only choice.

That doesn’t make it any easier.

He steels himself—draws on all his training to shut down the emotions threatening his calm, blinding him—and, as a final push, looks down at his bare, empty wrist.

There’s supposed to be a timer there. He gave it up—sacrificed it—sacrificed _Jemma_ —for Garrett. For a man that didn’t deserve a single second of the decade’s worth of loyalty and devotion Grant’s given him.

He’s not making the same mistake twice.

Silently, he moves further into the lounge. Garrett’s eyes widen as he spots him, but by then it’s too late; Grant snatches the GH-325 right out of Raina’s hands.

“Or you could not,” he suggests, as she surges to her feet.

“Grant,” Garrett coughs, struggling to sit up. His lips are flecked with blood; he must not have much time left. “What are you doing?”

“What I should have done a long time ago,” he says. Slowly, pointedly, he pockets the vial of GH-325. “Letting you die.”

Garrett collapses back against the table, unable to summon the strength to sit up, and gasps, “HYDRA.”

“What about it?” Grant asks. “The bosses know you’re dying, don’t they? And all those grunts just saw you collapse after Fitz activated an EMP.” He shrugs, using the throbbing the motion spikes in his ribs to shore up his façade of calm. “It’s tragic, but that’s field work for you.”

Raina’s watching him, eyes wide and thoughtful.

“I could tell them the truth,” she says, tone more testing than threatening.

“You could,” he agrees. “But why would you? You said it yourself, back at the barbershop; Garrett doesn’t want what you want. He’s not interested in powered people, just saving his own sorry ass.” He turns away from Garrett slightly to focus on her. “You wanna reunite Skye with her parents? That’s a lot more likely to happen through me than him.”

Skye’s always wondered about her parents—has spent her whole life searching for them. Arranging an introduction won’t do much in the way of amends for Grant’s part in her getting shot, but it’s a start.

As for amends to the rest of the team—Jemma especially—well, that he’s gonna have to think on. There’s no guarantee that they’ll forgive him, and even if they do, this single act alone won’t be enough to convince them of his good intentions.

But all of that—even Jemma—can wait. They’re on a plane above the middle of the ocean; Jemma and Fitz aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“You’ll help me get Skye to her father?” Raina asks.

“Yeah,” Grant says, as Garrett tries—through wheezing breaths—to protest. “I will.”

She nods, and looks to Garrett. “Goodbye, then, Agent Garrett. It’s been…interesting working with you.”

With that, she walks away, wandering towards the kitchen, where the majority of the HYDRA agents have gathered.

Garrett flails weakly and coughs—more blood. Grant crouches down next to him.

“If you’re gonna kill me,” he says, voice barely a croak, “At least have the decency to shoot me.”

“No,” Grant says. “No, I don’t think so.”

Part of it’s emotional. His attachment to Garrett—no matter how undeserved or one-sided—won’t let him turn a weapon on him.

Mostly, though, it’s just strategic. None of the others on the Bus are loyal to Garrett, not like Grant is. They’re just agents on loan from HYDRA; they’re following Garrett’s lead under orders, not devotion. None of them are gonna be seeking revenge when Garrett dies—they’ll just look to Grant for orders, instead.

 _If_ he dies from Fitz’s EMP, that is. If Grant shoots him…

Well, mutiny in HYDRA’s not the death sentence it would’ve been in SHIELD, but it’ll still put him under more scrutiny than he really wants. Better to let Garrett fade away.

“Aft—after everything I’ve done for you,” Garrett croaks, and Grant scoffs.

“After everything you’ve done for _you_ ,” he corrects. The pumping… _thing_ in Garrett’s side is starting to slow; Grant reaches out and closes the panel, just to spare himself the sound. “I’ve been loyal to you for half my life, John. And all you’ve ever done is use me to advance your own agenda.”

The painful rasp of Garrett’s breathing grates against his nerves. It’s not easy, watching him die. Grant can’t just turn off so many years of loyalty—of _love_. He’s called Garrett his father and meant it; that’s not something he’s capable of just putting aside.

“I would’ve done anything for you,” he says, mostly to himself. “Well, almost.” He meets Garrett’s eyes and finds they’re starting to grow hazy. “You shouldn’t have ordered me to hurt Jemma, John. You should’ve known that was going too far.”

Garrett’s too far gone to speak. All he does is clench his hand in Grant’s sleeve, face twisted in condemnation.

“You picked the wrong time for another test,” Grant concludes quietly, and watches in silence as Garrett breathes his last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da? *hides*
> 
>  **EDIT** : As of 6/16/16, I'm rewriting this fic. The original will stand as-is; the rewrites--and, eventually, the final chapter--can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7223578/chapters/16396078).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [sometimes (i find it hard to believe)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223578) by [shineyma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma)




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